






4 
























THE YELLOW POPPY 







THE YELLOW POPPY 


By 

D. K. BROSTER 



NEW YORK 

ROBERT M. McBRIDE ^ COMPANY 

1922 



PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. 


5 0 V 




TO 

GERTRUDE SCHLICH 

MOST GENEROUS AND INSPIRING OF CRITICS 
THIS BOOK 

WHICH IS SO MUCH HERS ALREADY 


" I love you, loved you . . . loved you first and last. 
And love you on for ever . . . 

... I had known the same 
Except that I was prouder than I knew, 

And not so honest. Aye, and as I live 
I should have died so, crushing in my hand 
This rose of love, the wasp inside and all, — 

Ignoring ever to my soul and you 

Both rose and pain, — except for this great loss. 

This great despair , , 


Aurora Leigh. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK I 

THE WEDDING GIFT 

OHAPTTR PAG* 

I. “ WHAT IS MIRABEL 7 ” . . . . II 

II. THE GIFT IS OFFERED I9 

III. THE GIFT IS RECEIVED .... 29 

IV. A VERY YOUNG MAN 4I 

V. TV MARCELLUS ERIS . .... 49 

BOOK II 

MIRABEL 

I. M. THIBAULT IN CONVERSATION ... 63 

II. LE PALAIS DE FAIENCE . . . . 7I 

III. NINE YEARS — AND BEYOND .... 78 

IV. JADIS 88 

V. THE JASPER CUP 99 

VI. THE ROMAUNT OF ROLAND .... Ill 

VII. CHILDE ROLAND COMES TO THE DARK TOWER II9 

VIII. HIS SOJOURN THERE 126 

IX. HIS DEPARTURE THENCE . . . -135 

X. THE knight's MOVE I41 

XI. CHECK TO THE KNIGHT .... 155 

XII. THE rook’s move : CHECK TO THE ROOK 165 

XIII. THE bishop’s MOVE .... I77 

XIV. PLOTTER AND PRIEST 184 

XV. UNDER THE SEAL .... I9I 

XVI. THE queen's MOVE .... I98 


7 


8 


CONTENTS 


BOOK III 

LE CLOS-AUX-GRIVES 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. THE COURT OF CHARLEMAGNE . . . 20 g 

II. M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR A KINSMAN . 215 

III. M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR HIMSELF . 225 

IV. A MOONLIGHT WALK IN THE FOREST . . 236 

V. WHAT THE ABBt THOUGHT OF IT . . . 246 

VI. MEMLVI ET PERMANEO ..... 253 

VII. THE CHURCH MILITANT . . . . 260 

VIII. THE PAWN RETURNS TO THE BOARD . . 267 

IX. THE CHOICE 278 

X. “ AFTERWARDS 286 - 

XI. AMONG THE WATCHERS .... 295 

XII. THE CENTRE OF THE LABYRINTH . . • 304 

BOOK IV 

THE YELLOW POPPY 

I. FULFILMENT . . . . . . 315 

II. THE YELLOW POPPY 324 

III. THE COST OF ANSWERED PRAYER . . . 33I 

IV. WAR . . . AND TREATIES . . . . 34O 

V. ALONE IN ARMS 353 

VI. SWORD, THY NOBLER USE IS DONE ! ** . 362 

VII. HOW AT THE LAST THE WINE WAS NOT DRUNK . 37I 

VIII. WHAT WAS LEARNT AT VANNES . . . 381 

IX. THE RUBIES OF MIRABEL .... 387 

X. THE LAST CONFLICT 398 

XI. GASTON GIVES UP THE YELLOW POPPY . . 4II 

XII. FOR SOME THE WORLD IS EMPTY . . .421 

XIII. TO THE UTTERMOST 432 


BOOK I 

THE WEDDING GIFT 

And so, self-girded with torn strips of hope. 

Took up his life, as if it were for death 
(Just capable of one heroic aim). 

And threw it in the thickest of the world." 

Aurora Leigh 


NOTE 


Any reader familiar with the figure of the gallant and 
unfortunate Louis de Frdtte will realise why neither 
he nor the Normandy which he led so well play any 
part in these pages — not indeed that he has served as 
prototype for any character in them, but because to 
have introduced him also would have been to over- 
blacken the reputation of Bonaparte. Yet that 
which is here laid to the First Consul's charge is no 
libel, for the deeds done at Alen?on and Vemeuil in 
mid-February, 1800, are written in history. 


CHAPTER I 

WHAT IS MIRA.BEL ? ” 

“ I WISH I had been taught how to make a bed ! ” com- 
plained Roland de C61igny, as he wrestled with his blanket 
in the half-darkness of the attic. 

You may think yourself lucky to have a bed to make I 
retorted a comrade who sat cross-legged on a neighbouring 
pile of sacking. ** Mine cannot be * made/ though a 
careless movement will reduce it to its component ele- 
ments.** 

“ The devil ! If I tuck in the blanket this side, it won’t 
reach to the other ! ** pursued the young grumbler, fiercely 
demonstrating the truth of his accusation, where he knelt 
by a mattress placed directly on the floor. 

“ From this, my paladin, learn that the gifts of Fate 
are evenly distributed,” returned he of the pile of sacking. 
Since one of his arms was in a sling, it is possible that he 
would not have been capable even of the Vicomte de 
C^ligny’s unfruitful exertions, but he did not say so. On 
the contrary, he looked at his friend’s performance with 
the air of one who in a moment will say, ” Let me do it ! ” 

If you would only take less ” he began. 

For Heaven’s sake be quiet, you two ! ” entreated a 
third voice. One cannot count, much less think, in 
your chatter . . . Two tierce-majors. ...” 

The owner of this voice, a man of about forty-five or 
fifty, sat at a table in a corner playing piquet by candle- 
light with another. There is no reason why you should 
not play piquet, even if you are a Chouan officer in the 
late April of the year of grace 1799 — or, if you prefer it, 
which in that case is unlikely, Floreal of the year VII 
of the Republic — and are concealed at the top of an old 
house at Hennebont in Brittany with a bandage on your 
head, and an ache within it which may well justify a little 
impatience to noise. When, in addition, your partner 

II 


12 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


refuses to play for money, the game becomes so harmless as 
almost to be meritorious. 

To the appeal of the piquet-player — ^his superior officer 
into the bargain — the wounded critic on the sacking made 
no reply save a grimace. The time selected for bedmaking 
by the very good-looking young man who was engaged in 
it was not, as might be guessed, a morning hour ; it was, on 
the contrary, nine o'clock in the evening. Two candles 
stuck in the necks of bottles gave the card-players their 
requisite illumination ; another, standing on a dilapidated 
chest of drawers, shone on the book which a third young 
man, sitting astride a chair, had propped on its back and 
in which he appeared to be immersed. 

The attic thus meagrely ht was spacious, and full of 
odd comers, but crowded with tables and chairs and 
cupboards, for it was the top floor of a furniture dealer, 
where he stored his old or unfashionable goods, many 
of which had been piled up on the top of each other to 
make more room, and where two or three huge old ward- 
robes, jutting out like dark shadowy rocks from the 
walls, still further reduced the space available for occupa- 
tion. Yet though it was, patently, a refuge, it was also a 
rendezvous. 

In this spring of 1799 the Directory, the cruel and 
incapable, was still prolonging its dishonoured existence, 
and after ten years of torment the French people were still 
enslaved — to an oligarchy instead of to a monarchy. The 
hberty dangled so long before their eyes, the liberty in 
whose name so many terrible crimes had been committed, 
seemed further away than ever. Inert and exhausted, 
pining under a leprosy of political corruption, her credit 
and trade almost ruined, the mere ghost of what she 
had been, France was sighing for the master that she was 
impotent to give herself, the man who should overturn 
her new tyrants and raise her up once more to her full 
stature. And to most minds in the West, that home of 
loyalty, only one master was conceivable, and that was 
Louis XVIII., the King who had never reigned. 

In the West, moreover, at this moment, the Chouannerie, 
that sporadic guerrilla warfare of profoundly RoyaUst 
and Catholic stamp, indigenous to Brittany, Anjou, and 
Maine since the overthrow of the great Vendean effort 


‘'WHAT IS MIRABEL?** 


13 


in 1793, was showing signs of reviving — under persecution. 
It had indeed been temporarily stamped out at the pacifica- 
tion of three years ago, but that pacification had left the 
Royalists of Brittany and the neighbouring departments 
in a position which gradually proved to be intolerable. 
They were not at war, yet they lived in continual peril, 
not one of them sure of his liberty or even of his life. 
After the scandalous coup d’etat of Fructidor, *97, the 
promised religious freedom was not even a name, and 
political freedom, especially in the western departments 
whose elections had been so cynically annulled, was a 
mere farce. It came, in fact, at last to this, that the 
Minister of Police could recommend that the Royahsts 
of those regions should be “ caused to disappear ** if neces- 
sary ; tyranny unashamed had replaced oppression. 

Naturally enough, in 1798 the Chouan began to make 
his appearance once more. At first he merely robbed 
couriers and diligences of public money. But this not 
very creditable activity was on the surface ; underneath, 
in the hands usually of gentlemen, the work went secretly 
forward of organising that indomitable and tenacious 
peasantry, at once pious and cruel, and of transforming 
brigandage into real war ; and so, throughout the West, 
might be found wandering Royalist leaders with their 
little staffs, striving to keep effective the Chouans who 
had once fought, and to enrol and arm fresh volunteers. 
To such a band, commanded by the Marquis de Kersaint, 
an emigre distinguished in Austrian service who had not 
long come over from England, belonged these five men 
in the furniture-dealer's attic. 

They were not, at this moment, in very enviable case, 
for besides that two of them were wounded, they and their 
handful of peasants — since scattered — ^had yesterday 
come off second best in an unexpected collision with 
Government troops in the neighbouring department of 
Finistere, and they were now beginning, moreover, to be 
anxious about the safety of their leader, who, with a 
guidf' had taken a more circuitous route to Hennebont 
in order to gather certain information. And his presence 
here was urgent because it had long been arranged that 
he and his two elder subordinates should meet and confer 
in Hennebont with Georges Cadoudal, the famous peasant 


14 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


leader of the Morbihan, concerning the better organisation 
of the wilder and more westerly region of Finistere, which, 
it was whispered, M. de Kersaint was eventually to com- 
mand in its entirety. Yesterday’s misfortune had made 
such a meeting more, not less, necessary ; and so here, 
half-fugitive, M. de Kersaint’s of&cers were, having had 
the luck to slip unobserved into the little town in the 
dusk. But now there were rumours of a colonne mobile 
on the road which their leader would probably take ; and 
in any case there was always danger — danger which 
the three young men who formed a sort of bodyguard of 
aides-de-camp to him considered would have been lessened 
for him had they shared his odyssey. But M. de Kersaint 
had apparently thought otherwise. 

The game of cards in the corner came at last to an end, 
and the opponents added up their scores. 

** You have won, Comte,” said the bandaged player’s 
adversary, leaning back in his chair. The candle-light 
which threw up his companion’s somewhat harsh features 
shone in his case on a nondescript round face with no 
salient characteristics. By this and by his peasant’s 
attire he might well have been a small farmer ; but on 
the other, him addressed as ” Comte,” the gaily embroidered 
Breton vest and short coat sat less naturally. 

” Yes, I suppose I have,” returned the latter. He 
drew out his watch and frowned. ” They ought really 
to be here by now,” he observed. 

“ I doubt if it is quite dark enough outside,” replied his 
late adversary. ” Le Ble-aux-Champs would hardly 
risk bringing M. de Kersaint into Hennebont while light 
remained.” 

” I wish he had not gone to Scaer,” muttered the other. 

” You do not think that anything has happened to 
M. le Marquis, do you, sir ? ” asked Roland de Celigny. 

” No,” replied M. de Kersaint’s second-in-command. 
” I will not believe in misfortune ; it is the way to bring 
it about.” 

” Perhaps this is they,” suggested Artamene de la Vergne, 
the youth with his arm in a sling, as a step was heard 
on the echoing stairs. And even the silent reader hfted 
his head from his book to listen. 


"WHAT IS MIRABEL?" 


15 


But the moment of suspense which followed was not 
lightened when the door opened and old M. Chariot, the 
furniture-dealer, himself appeared on the threshold, 
candle in hand, tinted spectacles on nose. In a silence of 
expectancy he came in and shut the door carefully behind 
him, while five pairs of eyes stared at him uneasily. 

" Gentlemen," he began in a cautious voice, looking 
round on the forms ensconced among his shadowy furniture, 
" is not one of you a priest ? " 

The second piquet-player bent forward. " Yes, I am," 
he surprisingly admitted. " Do you want me ? " 

" There is an old lady very ill next door. Monsieur TAbb^, 
an old Mile Magny, who has been a respected inhabitant 
of this town for many years. It is not that she wants a 
confessor or the Last Sacraments, because she had them 
two or three days ago ; it is that to-night she is wandering 
so much that her niece, who looks after her, came in to me 
about it just now in great distress. The old lady seems 
to have something on her mind, and Mme Leclerc thought 
that if she could get a priest, an insermenU, of course " 

The Abb6 who looked so little of an Abb^ interrupted. 
" I am quite ready to go to her. Monsieur Chariot, if it is 
necessary, but I should have thought that, rather than 
summon a stranger, the poor lady^s relatives would have had 
recourse to the priest who confessed her the other day." 

" Yes, mon p^re," replied the old man, " but you see he 
lives very retired outside the town since Fructidor, and 
there is always a certain risk for him in coming, and seeing 
that you were on the spot, and not known here for a 
priest . . 

The word " risk " appeared to have decided the question, 
for at it the Abb^ in the peasant's dress had risen. 

" I will come at once," he said without more ado, and 
walked round an intervening barrier of upturned chairs. 

" That is very good of your reverence," said M. 
Chariot in a tone of relief, moving towards the door. 
" She has been an excellent Christian in her time, that poor 
lady, and shrewd enough too, but now she lies there, 
so her niece says, talking continually of some place — or 
person, maybe — called Mirabel, and of a wedding. And 
nothing " 

^ Mirabel ! " ejaculated the Abb^, stopping short. 


i6 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


O, Monsieur TAbb^ ! exclaimed M. Chariot, struck 
by his tone, ** if you know something about this Mirabel, 
then surely the good God has sent you to the poor soul ! 
I will take you there at once/' 

He opened the door for the priest, who went through it 
without another word. None of the three young men, 
all watching these two protagonists, noticed that the 
wounded piquet-player also had risen abruptly from his 
seat at the mention of the name which had so affected 
his companion, had stared after them a second or two, 
and that he now let himself fall into his chair again with a 
despondent gesture, and took his bandaged head between 
his hands. 

Now the Abbe’s got a job to occupy him,” said Arta- 
mene de la Vergne in a sleepy voice. ” I wish I had ; 
or that M. de Kersaint and Le Ble-aux-Champs would arrive 
quickly, so that I could go to sleep without the prospect 
of being waked up again immediately.” 

” The true campaigner can sleep at any time, and for 
any length of time,” remarked Roland complacently. ” It 
is early yet, at least I think so. My watch has 
stopped.” 

” And mine is lost,” responded the Chevalier de la 
Vergne. ” Lucien is sure to have his, and it is sure to be 
correct. Ask him the time.” 

” Lucien ! ” said Roland. No answer from the reader. 

” Lucien, deaf adder ! ” supplemented Artamene. 

” I believe he is asleep,” muttered the Vicomte de 
C^gny, and by a snake-like elongation of body and arm 
he contrived to reach a leg of the student’s chair and to 
shake the same. 

” I wish you were asleep ! ” exclaimed his victim, lifting 
a mildly exasperated face. ” What in Heaven’s name 
do you want ? ” 

” The time, dear friend.” 

Lucien du Boisfosse puUed the watch from his fob, 
” A quarter — ^no, seventeen minutes past nine.” 

” Vdiat are you reading ? ” demanded Artamene. 

” The Mneid of Virgil,” replied Lucien, his eyes on the 
page again. 

The questioner gave an exclamation, almost of horror. 

Ye gods ! He is reading Latin — for amusement ! ” 


“WHAT IS MIRABEL ?“ 17 

“ A quarter past nine/* remarked Roland reflectively. 
“ This time yesterday I was ** 

“ Don't chatter so, Roland le preux ! You disturb our 
Latinist . . . and also," added Artam^ne in a lower tone, 
“ run the risk of breaking into M. de Brencourt’s medita- 
tions. Look at him ! " 

The bandaged piquet-player, who still sat by the table, 
seemed indeed sunk in a profound abstraction, letting the 
idle cards faU one by one from his fingers. It was plain that 
he did not know what he was doing. 

“ I wager he is thinking of a woman," whispered Arta- 
mene, bringing himself nearer to his friend. " It seems a 
quieting occupation ; suppose we think of one too ! But 
on whom shall I fix my thoughts . . . and you, 

Roland ? " 

A slight flush, invisible in the poor light, dyed young 
de Celigny's cheek as he answered, with a suspicion of 
embarrassment, " I will think of that poor old lady next 
door. Will the Abb6 exorcise her, do you think, from the 
spell of . . . what was it — Mirabel ? And, by the way, 
what is Mirabel ? " 

" The name of a kind of plum, ignoramus," replied 
Lucien du Boisfosse unexpectedly. He yawned as he 
spoke. 

" Plainly our Lucien has been studying the Georgies 
also," commented Artamene. 

" An encyclopaedia would be more to the point ! ’* 
retorted Roland. And raising his voice, he said, " Comte, 
what is Mirabel ? " 

The older man heard, even with a little start. He laid 
down the cards and came out of his reverie. 

" Mirabel, gentlemen, is the name of a property and 
chateau near Paris, the chateau that was begun for Fran- 
cois I. You may have heard of it. It belongs, or belonged, 
to the Due de Trelan." 

" Trelan," observed the young Chevalier de la Vergne 
reflectively. " I seem to remember the name in con- 
nection with the prison massacres in September, *92. He 
was killed in them, I think ? " 

" No," replied the Comte de Brencourt sombrely. " He 
was never in prison. He had emigrated. It was his wife 
who was butchered — with Mme de Lamballe." 


i8 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** Morbleu ! *' exclaimed Artam^ne. And the Due is 
still alive, then ? ** 

“ I believe so/* replied M. de Brencourt, even more 
sombrely. 

** Where is he now ? ** asked Roland. 

** Somewhere abroad — ^in England or Germany.** 

Worse than being dead 1 ** observed Artamdne, lying 
down and pulling the covering over him. 


CHAPTER II 

THE GIFT IS OFFERED 


And next door, in a tidy but overcrowded bedroom, the 
Abbe Chassin, without any of the marks of his office, sat 
and hstened to the babbling of an old spinster lady who 
was to terminate an uneventful and singularly respectable 
life as the messenger of destiny to not a few people. 

The heavy curtains were pulled back from the side of 
the small fourposter by which the priest sat, and the 
candlelight fell soft and steady on the old, old blanched 
face within the neat capfrill, itself scarcely whiter than the 
visage it surrounded. On the waxlike countenance, amid 
all the signs of nearing death, was the imprint of that 
masterfulness which sometimes descends with age upon a 
certain type of old lady. And Mile Magny was talking, 
talking continuously and pitifully, her eyes fixed, her 
shrivelled fingers pleating and plucking the edge of the 
sheet in the last fatal restlessness. Those hands were the 
only things that moved. 

“ I ought to have had it ready . . . but I did not know 
in time, I did not know ! All these years to have had it 
in the family, and not to have known that it was there ! 
But perhaps I shall be in time after all — they cannot have 
come back from the chapel yet, surely. But I must be 
quick, I must be quick ! . . . and when the bride gives 
round the sword-knots and the fans to all the fine company 
I shall offer my gift to the young Due. But I must be 
quick . . y 

And the withered hands, abandoning the sheet, began to 
fumble over the bed as if searching for something. 

The Abbe bent forward and laid one of his own gently 
on the nearer. 

“ Cannot I help you, my daughter — cannot I do some- 
thing for you ? ** 

The eyes turned a moment ; the brain, deeply absorbed 
10 


20 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


in the past though it was, seemed to grasp this intrusion 
from the present, even to the pastoral mode of address. 

** You are a priest. Monsieur ? That is good — that is 
good ! Yes, you can open this casket for me,” and she 
made as if she held it. ” And inside you will find the 
wedding gift for the young Due de Trelan — ^but you must 
be quick, quick ! They will be back from the chapel ! 

. . . Ah, I cannot find the key — I cannot turn the lock ! 
My God, if I should be too late after aU ! Mon p^re, mon 
pere, help me ! . . . But, mon pere, you are doing nothing ! ” 

The Abb^ looked round in desperation. He could see 
nothing that at all resembled a locked casket among the 
little treasures of the old lady’s room, the pincushions, 
the images of devotion, all the prim collection of a 
blameless lifetime. But in a moment the struggle with 
the imaginary lock came to an end, and as the tired hands 
relaxed a smile crept about Mile Magny’s indrawn mouth. 

” How handsome he is. Monseigneur Gaston ! ” she said 
in a tone of admiration. ” My dear lady will be proud of 
him to-day ! They will dance to-night after the wedding, 
and I shall see it all, as my lady wishes. But none of the 
fine ladies there will have given the bride such a gift as 
I shall give the bridegroom, though I am only his dear 
mother’s maid. . . . But why does the Abbe not bring 
it to me ? When the bride gives round the swordknots 
and the fans ” 

“ Madame,” gently interrupted the priest, ” if you will 
tell me where your gift is, I will bring it to you instantly.” 

A look of cunning swept over the dying old woman’s face, 
and a faint sound that was like a chuckle came from her 
lips. 

” Ah, no, I have hidden it well ! ” she replied unex- 
pectedly, ” hidden it nearly as securely as the treasure of 
Mirabel itself. You will not find it in a hurry, Clotilde ! ” 

Who was Clotilde, wondered the priest ? The niece 
with whom she lived, probably. But what was this 
about a ‘ treasure ’ in Mirabel ? 

“To think,” went on the old voice musingly, ” that 
the precious paper was all these years in Cousin Franpois* 
dining-room, and all those scores of years before that, 
since the time it was stolen. And all the dead and gone 
Duchesses might have had the rubies to wear. I might 


THE GIFT IS OFFERED 


21 


have clasped the necklace round my sainted lady's own 
neck. Now the new Duchesse will be the first to put it 
round her pretty throat." 

The priest gave a little shiver. Still that wedding 
eight-and-twenty years ago ! . , . Since then the pretty 
throat of which she spoke had known a very different 
necklace . . . but of the same colour . . . 

" But if you have hidden the rubies, Madame," he 
hazarded, bewildered between the ‘ treasure ' and the 
* paper,' the ‘ gift ’ and what was concealed, you will 
not be able to give them to the bride." 

" It was not I who hid them ! " responded Mile Magny 
impatiently. " It was the first Due, in the days of Mazarin, 
who hid a great store of money and jewels at Mirabel. 
And no one was ever able to find them again. Stolen 
. . . hidden . . . hidden . . . stolen . . . they make a 
beautiful couple, and when Monseigneur de Paris has 
married them and the nuptial mass is finished. ..." 

A long pause. Then the old lady whispering, " Sainte 
Vierge, how tired I am ! " clasped her hands on her breast. 
The Abbe got up and bent over her. Her eyes were 
closed, and he heard her murmur indistinctly, “ Mater 
amahiUs, virgo prudentissima, grant me soon to see my 
sainted lady ! " 

To be on the brink of so important, so long-lost a secret 
— too late for it to be of use . . . yet, after all, perhaps, 
not too late — and to be baffled at the very moment of 
discovery ! When such an extraordinary coincidence 
had brought him, of all men in the world, to this bedside, 
for its possessor to take the secret unrevealed out of life 
with her ! It was hard ! 

Yet, as M. Chassin was a priest, he put away regret, 
and tried to think only of the needs of this soul about to 
pass through the great door. Mile Magny had had the 
last rites, that he knew. Was the moment come for the 
commendatory prayer ? He slipped his fingers round 
her wrist. But the pulse, though feeble and irregular, was 
not at the last flutter. And slowly, as if his touch had 
roused her, the old lady opened her eyes again. The 
look in them was different ; meeting it, the priest knew 
that she was no longer wandering in the mists of nearly 
thirty years ago. She was back in the present ; so much 


22 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


so, indeed, that she was capable of astonishment at seeing 
this unknown man in peasant’s dress bending over her — 
more, of resenting it. 

Who are you. Monsieur, and . . . what . . . what 
are you doing here ? ” she demanded, in a tone which, 
if scarcely more than the frailest of whispers, yet conveyed 
some of that masterfulness which was written on her face. 

“ I am a priest, Madame, an insermente, and M. Chariot, 
your neighbour, brought me here, at your niece's desire.” 

” Clotilde always . . . takes too much upon herself,” 
said the thread of a voice in a tone of displeasure. ” I have 
already had . . . the Last Sacraments.” 

” Yes, Madame,” assented M. Chassin, realising that 
Mile Magny's recovery of her senses was not advancing 
him much. ” It was not for the purpose of administering 
you that I came.” 

Her look asked him what his purpose was. 

” Because, my daughter, you were speaking of — Mirabel.” 

” Nonsense ! ” retorted Mile Magny quite sharply. ” I 
am not in ... in the habit of . . . discussing my past 
life with strangers ! ” 

” You have been ill, Madame,” said the priest gently, 
” And has not Mirabel something to do with your 
present Ufe too ? ” Then, being a man who knew how to 
wait, he took his seat beside her again, and exercised this 
power. 

” Have I been wandering ? ” asked the dying woman, 
suddenly turning her eyes upon him. 

” A little, yes.” 

” I have been very ill . . . and they tell me I shall not 
get better. ... Is that so. Father ? ” 

” It is what I have been given to understand, my 
daughter. But you have made your peace with God.” 

“Yes,” said she. ” But there is something else that I 
desire to do . . . before I die . . . yet God knows how I 
am to do it.” 

The priest bent forward. ” God does indeed know, 
my daugliter, and it was doubtless He Who sent me here 
to-day. You wish, do you not, to give into the hands 
of the Due de Troian a paper now in your possession 
concerning a treasure which has been for many years 
hidden in his chateau of Mirabel.” 


THE GIFT IS OFFERED 


23 


A flush rose in the ivory face. I talked of that ? " 

** Of that — and of a wedding at Mirabel.'' 

Mile Magny put a trembling hand over her eyes. ** In- 
deed, you must forgive me ! ... All these years I cannot 
forget it — the lights, the jewels, the beauty of that couple, 
my lady's happiness. For I was tirewoman, mon pere, 
during many years, to the Duchesse Eleonore, the Dowager 
Duchess, a saint on earth. God rest her soul ! She only 
lived for a short time after her son's marriage." 

The priest nodded, as one who knows already. " I, too, 
have cause to say ' God rest her ! ' — ^And the paper you 
spoke of ? " 

" What paper ? " demanded the old voice, suddenly 
suspicious again. 

" The paper containing the secret of the hoard hidden 
at Mirabel in Mazarin's time, which has come into your 
hands, Madame, and which you were wishing that you 
could have given to the Due de Trelan on his wedding 
day so many years ago." 

There was silence from the bed. " Well," said the 
old lady at last, with more animation, " if I told you 
... all that ... I may as well tell you the rest." 

And slowly, with pauses for breath, she told him how 
the Due de Trelan of Mazarin's day, implicated in the 
rebellion of the Fronde, and not knowing which party would 
finally triumph in that kaleidoscope of civil conflict, 
buried gold and jewels in his once-royal chateau of Mirabel 
and made a memorandum of the hiding-place for his 
son, then away fighting with Conde. The Due himself 
had to flee before Mazarin's vengeance and died in exile ; 
Mirabel was for a space confiscated, and when the next 
Due was reinstated the treasure could not be found. The 
memorandum of its hiding-place had been stolen by the 
late Due's steward, who offered to sell it for a large sum 
to the successor to the title. Suspecting a hoax the latter 
refused ; yet, as was not difficult for a great noble in those 
days, he procured a lettre de cachet against the offender, 
who dragged out the rest of his life in prison. Before his 
arrest, however, he had placed the memorandum in the 
hands of a friend ; but the friend never took any steps 
to utilise it, and merely preserved it in such a manner 
that it was to aU intents and purposes lost — ^for he pasted 


24 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


the parchment, face downwards, against the back of his 
wife’s portrait. Probably, said the old lady, he was 
waiting till the man who had confided it to him came out 
of prison ; but this the steward never did, and a short 
time before his death in captivity his friend. Mile Magny's 
great-great-grandfather, died too. And there, gummed 
against the picture of the flourishing bourgeoise dame of 
Louis XIII.’s day, the parchment had remained for nearly 
a hundred and fifty years, till, some two years ago, on 
Cousin Francois’ death, the portrait had come into Mile 
Magny’s possession, and the old lady herself, in examining 
it, had hghted on the parchment, and reahsed of what 
irony Fate was capable. 

“ Ah, if only I had had it earlier ! ” she concluded 
wistfully. What a gift to have made my sainted lady, 
who was sometimes pressed for money for her charities, 
since, like all the Saint-Chamans, both her husband and 
her son spent their means royally. And now these two years 
that I have had it it is useless ! Where is the Due de 
Troian now ? Alas, we know where his wife, the 
Duchesse Valentine, went ! . . . And what is Mirabel 
to-day ? ” 

"‘No, Madame,” said the priest, as the voice ceased 
exhausted, ” two years ago you could have done nothing. 
But to-day, as Heaven has so ordered it, you can give 
that paper to the Due de Trelan, if you wish.” 

She turned her sunken eyes on him again. The lustre 
was already fading. 

” And how is that, if you please ? ” 

” Because I am ... in close touch with the Due. If 
you commit the paper to me he shall have it before — ^before 
I am many days older.” 

” But — if he is still alive — ^he is an emigre . . . has been 
an emigre for many years ! ” objected Mile Magny incredu- 
lously. 

” Nevertheless I am in close touch with him.” 

The fading eyes of the sick woman searched his face — 
that commonplace visage out of which looked neither 
good nor evil. It was difficult to read. 

“ I have nothing but your word for that,” she said, 
while suspicion and a wistful desire to trust him strove 
together in look and tone. 


THE GIFT IS OFFERED 


25 


The priest put his hand into a pocket of his embroidered 
vest and pulled out an ornate rosary of ebony and silver. 
Taking one of the silver paternoster beads between his 
finger and thumb; he bent over Mile Magny and held it 
near her eyes. “ Can you see what is engraved on that 
bead, Madame ? It is not a sacred emblem.*' 

The old lady put up her feeble hand and tried to push 
his a little further off. “You are holding it too near, 
mon pere," she said irritably. “I am not so blind as 
that. ... It looks like ... it is very worn . . . yet it 
looks like a bird of some kind, with wings outspread. 
What is that doing on a chaplet ? Is it on ^e rest of the 
beads ? " 

He showed her. “ Victor, Cardinal de Troian, in the 
early days of the century, seems to have had a strange 
fancy for his family crest on his rosary. There is his 
monogram on one bead. That bird, Madame, is the 
Trelan phoenix, and the present Due gave me this old 
rosary at my ordination.’* 

Instantly she seized his hand. “ The Trelan phoenix ! 
Let me look again ! Yes, it is, it is ! Ah, to see it once 
more after all these years ! *' And as the priest relin- 
quished the chaplet, the Duchesse Eleonore’s tirewoman, 
almost sobbing, put it to her lips. 

The Abb6 waited, and after a moment she turned on 
him moist eyes and said, puzzled, “ But . . . but ... I 
seem to remember . . . ordination . . . the Cardinal’s 
rosary ... it was surely to the young Due’s foster-brother, 
a Breton peasant, whom I never saw . . . that it was 
given . . . when he took orders ? ” 

“ You remember quite rightly, Madame. And I am 
that foster-brother, that Breton peasant, Pierre Chassin.” 

Had he suddenly revealed himself as Louis XVIII. or 
the Comte d’Artois the devoted old spinster could scarcely 
have shown more emotion. 

“ God be praised ! God be praised for this mercy ! ” 
she quavered. “ His foster-brother ! Yes, I remember 
hearing from my lady all about your mother. Six years 
before I entered her service it was . . .* 

“ — Remembering then, Madame, what I too owe to 
your lady of blessed memory, an.d to the Due, who, as 
you probably know, had me educated and gave me a cure 


26 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


on his estates in the south, you may trust me, may you 
not, with the document ? 

Yes, indeed ! returned the old lady, and there 
was no shadow of doubt in her tone now. But the shock 
of joy, her devotion to the great family with whom her 
life had been bound up, and the advent of this man who, 
if he were not himself the rose, was almost a graft from the 
tree — all these seemed to have benumbed her faculties, 
for she lay quiet, tears of weakness and happiness stealing 
from under the closed lids. Presently she said, 

** He is in France again then, the Due ? 

I am afraid I cannot tell you that, my daughter. 
But, on the faith of a Christian and a priest he shall have 
the secret in his hands very shortly.' 

“ He will not be able to make use of it now." 

" Who knows ? And if not now, when happier days 
come, perhaps. If he can make use of it, it will be of 
immeasurably greater service to him to-day than it would 
ever have been a quarter of a century ago. For this 
much I can teU you, Madame, that, wherever he is, he is 
fighting for the King." 

" As a Trelan should ! " she murmured with a smile. 
But the smile had gone when she added, " And the terrible 
fate of his wife, the Duchesse Valentine ? " 

" It broke his heart," said the priest briefly. 

" My lady was spared much," murmured Mile Magny. 
She passed a shaking hand over her eyes. " So much 
blood . . . and Mirabel deserted. . . . Are the candles 
going out, mon p^re, or is it my eyes ? N 'import e — you 
can still find the parchment . . . that little closed frame 
by the mirror yonder. If you open it you will know the 
face." 

He did. It was a little pastel drawing of the Duchesse 
Eleonore, his patroness, wearing the widow’s weeds in 
• which he best recalled her. He came back to the bed 
holding it. 

" It was to have been buried with me, that little picture 
... it still shall be. Clotilde knew how fond I was of it 
— ^but she would never have guessed anything else, poor 
fool ... I took a lesson from my forbear . . . Tear off 
the paper at the back, mon pere." 

M. Chassin obeyed, and as he peeled off the pinkish. 


THE GIFT IS OFFERED 


27 


speckly paper recently pasted there, a piece of yellow 
parchment doubled up against the real back of the picture 
was disclosed. It was folded in four, and on it was written 
in brownish ink the single word, “ Mirabel.*' 

Open it I ** said the voice from the bed, grown very 
weak now. 

The priest obeyed. As he unfolded the parchment 
with no very steady hands, his eyes were greeted with a 
sort of rough sketch-map of some complexity, underneath 
which was written, in a crabbed seventeenth century 
hand : 

** Plan de Tendroit dans mon chasteau de Mirabel oil 
j'ay fait enterrer plusieurs milliers de pistoles et divers 
parements de pierreries de feu ma femme, a cause 
des troubles s^vissant en ce royaume.” And he caught 
sight of Item, 10 sacs contenant chascun 2,500 pistoles 
. . . Item, un collier de rubis des Indes fort bien 
travaill^ . . . Item, une coupe en or cisele dite de la reyne 
Margueritte . 

The whole was inscribed ** Pour mon fils hault et puissant 
seigneur Gui de Saint-Chamans, Marquis de la Ganache, 
Vicomte de Saint-Chamans," and signed, " Fait par moy 
a mon dit chasteau de Mirabel ce six avril de Tan mil six 
cent cinquante-deux, Antoine-Louis de Saint-Chamans, 
Due de Treslan." 

" This is indeed " began the priest as soon as he 

could find voice, when, glancing off the parchment, he saw 
the change which, in the brief space of his study of the 
document, had come over the face on the pillow. Mile 
Magny had used her last reserve of strength over this 
matter ; it was gone now, and she was going too. 

" Promise me. Father ! " she gasped out as he bent 
over her. 

" I promise you, my daughter, as I hope myself for 
salvation ! " 

The drawn lips smiled. " I can say my Nunc Dimittis 
. . . Bless me, Pierre Chassin ! " 

He raised his hand. ** Benedicat te . . ." and 

passed straight on to the " Go forth, 0 Christian 
soul . . ." 

By the end she was unconscious, and a quarter of an 
hour later, the weeping Clotilde on one side of the bed 


28 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


and the proscribed priest praying on the other. Mile 
Magny, her last thoughts on earth occupied with the 
house of Trelan, went through the great door to meet her 
sainted lady, leaving on its hither side the secret of Mirabel 
to bring about results undreamt of. 


CHAPTER III 

THE GIFT IS RECEIVED 

All this while the occupants of M. Chariot’s attic, which 
the Abbe had so abruptly quitted, were taken up with 
their own anxieties, and though they had at last fallen 
silent, the chiaroscuro of their abode was fairly throbbing 
with uneasiness. What made their leader, with a guide 
above suspicion, so late in finding his way from Scaer ? 

At last, just about the moment that M. Chassin, next 
door, had finished the Proficiscere and was calling for 

Clotilde,” the Vicomte de CeUgny exclaimed, not for 
the first time, This must be they ! ” The four men strained 
their ears, for a noise could certainly be heard on the 
staircase. 

“ Dame ! it sounds as though Le Ble-aux-Champs were 
drunk ! ” observed Artamene. 

Or hurt ! ” added the Comte de Brencourt, listening 
uneasily. 

The heavy, shuffling footsteps which they had heard 
ascending the stairs paused outside the door. Roland 
sprang up and opened it, drawing back instantly with a 
little cry. Two men, both in Breton costume, stood on 
the threshold, the elder and taller supporting the other, a 
young saturnine-looking peasant, whose face was sulky 
with pain, and whose unshod left foot was enveloped in a 
stained and muddy handkerchief. 

“ Monsieur le Marquis ! ” cried Roland and Artamene 
together, " What has happened ? " 

“ Nothing very serious,” replied the elder newcomer 
cheerfully. ” We startled a colonne mobile in the dusk, 
that is all, and our poor Ble-aux-Champs has a ball through 
his foot.” 

” But you yourself are unhurt, de Kersaint, I hope ? ” 
asked the Comte de Brencourt, not without anxiety, as he 

29 


30 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


came forward from his comer. We were getting very 
uneasy about you."* 

"‘lam untouched, thank you. But this lad of mine 

“ Let him lie down on my mattress, sir," suggested the 
Vicomte de Celigny, and, as it happened to be the nearest 
to the door, the young Chouan, after vain protests, hobbled 
towards it, his arm still round his leader’s neck. 

" Yes, lie down, mon gars," said M. de Kersaint, lower- 
ing him to the pallet, " and we will see what can be done 
for this foot." He looked round. " Where is our surgeon- 
in-chief, the Abbe ? " 

" Confessing or otherwise ministering to a dying woman 
next door," replied M. de Brencourt. " M. Chariot came 
in for him.’" 

The Marquis de Kersaint raised his eyebrows a trifle, 
but made no comment. " I am afraid that we are some- 
what of an infirmary here altogether," he remarked. 
" What of your injuries, Comte — and yours. La Vergne ? "" 
I do not deny that I have a headache,’" returned M. de 
Brencourt. " But, as for the cause, the Abbe dressed the 
scratch this afternoon, and reported that it was doing 
excellently. My wrist "" he showed a bandage will, he 
says, take a little longer to heal." 

" And your safe arrival. Monsieur le Marquis, has done 
even more for my arm than the Abbe’s ministrations," 
said Artamene. 

M. de Kersaint smiled at him and shook his head, as he 
knelt down by the prostrate guide and began to take 
the handkerchief off his foot. He would have been more 
or less than human if he had not known that he was idolised, 
as well as feared, by these well-bom young followers of 
his. 

" Let me do that. Monsieur le Marquis ! *" now begged 
Roland, while the thoughtful Lucien produced from the 
recesses of the attic a bowl of water and some torn linen. 

But the Marquis de Kersaint, asking Roland when he had 
ever dressed a gunshot wound, went through the process 
with a deftness which suggested that he himself had dressed 
not a few. The young peasant, who had lain with his 
face hidden in the pillow, caught his hand as he finished 
and carried it dumbly to his hps. 

" There, mon gars," said his leader kindly, as he with- 


THE GIFT IS RECEIVED 


31 


drew it. ** Lie there and be as comfortable as you can 
under the circumstances. The ball has gone clean through, 
which is a great mercy. Roland, put a covering of some 
kind over him. — ^Thank you, Lucien ; yes, I should like 
some fresh water. You can put it on that convenient 
chest of drawers yonder.*' 

As he stood there, washing the blood off his hands, 
it was not difficult to understand the attraction that the 
Marquis de Kersaint might possess for either sex or any 
age. As a young man he must have been superlatively 
handsome, and now the grey at his temples only served to 
emphasize his appearance of extreme distinction. Just 
as his dark, slightly rippling hair gained by contrast with 
that touch of Time’s powder, so the peasant’s dress which 
he wore merely set off the natural air of command that 
hung about him — an air of which it was plainly impossible 
for him to divest himself, even for purposes of disguise. 
It was innate in the whole poise of his tall figure, in the 
aquiline nose with its delicate nostrils, in the imperious 
glance of the fine grey eyes. Yet there was a measure of 
geniality about the mouth — of the kind that it is not wise 
to presume upon. Everybody in the attic knew that. 

” Well, my children, and what have you been doing since 
you arrived ? ” he asked, looking round as he dried his 
hands. “ Lucien, I see, has got hold of a book as usual. 
What have you been reading, Lucien ? ” 

“ This is what he has been reading. Monsieur le Mar- 
quis ! ” cried the young Chevalier de la Vergne, snatching 
up du Boisfoss4’s Virgil whence he had laid it, face down- 
wards, on his chair. And holding the book with the hand 
which rested in the sling, of which he still had the use, 
he flourished his other arm at Roland, who was standing 
near, and began to declaim at him the famous lament 
out of the sixth book for the untimely dead Marcellus — 

** Heu miserande puer ! si qua fata aspera rumpas, 

Tu Marcellus eris. Manibus date lilia plenis 
Purpureas ” 

He had got no further when, to his enormous surprise, 
the book was gently but firmly taken out of his hand. 

“ Do not repeat those lines, boy, over anyone young, 
as you are doing at this moment,” said M. de Kersaint 


32 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


quietly, looking, not at him, but at Roland. ** I always 
think they are unlucky. . . 

And before the two young men had time to recover from 
their astonishment he had walked over to the other side 
of the attic, and joined his second in command at the Httle 
table to which the latter had returned. 

“ I have some papers here, de Brencourt," he said, 
sitting down, " which we could look at till the Abbe returns. 
Undoubtedly our attempt was premature . . . but unless 
we can get money it always will be premature. I have 
seen ‘ Sincere ’ ; he could join us with at least two hundred 
and fifty men if we could only provide arms for them.*' 

“ Always the same cry — insufficient arms and ammuni- 
tion,” remarked his lieutenant rather bitterly. ” How is 
anything considerable going to be done in Finistere if there 
is always this lack ? And we could get both in plenty 
from England if we only had the money to buy them 
with.” 

” Exactly,” said the Marquis. ” But where the money 
is to come from I do not know — ^beyond the not very 
generous subsidy which the British Government has 
promised me for the summer. — Well, we must take counsel 
with Georges when he comes. Now, look at these figures.” 

And he and the Comte de Brencourt were still bending 
over the papers which he had spread out on the table 
when the three young men, who had withdrawn themselves 
as far as possible from the conclave of their superiors, 
became aware that the priest was once more in their 
midst. He had entered among the shadows very quietly. 

” A la bonne heure. Monsieur TAbbe ! ” said Roland 
de Celigny. ” Monsieur le Marquis has arrived.” And 
he indicated the other side of the attic. 

” And have you been to the wedding at Mirabel ? ” 
enquired Artamene mischievously. 

The Abbe Chassin quickly turned on him with a frown, 
putting his finger to his hps. But he was too late ; the 
words were out, and, though the culprit had moderated 
his voice, they had been heard. And Artamene, roused at 
once to interest and alertness by the priest’s gesture, was 
somehow aware of a sudden stiffening of M. de Kersaint’s 
whole figure, ere he said, turning round from the table. 

What is this about . . , Mirabd ? ” 


THE GIFT IS RECEIVED 


33 


The Abbe seeming in no great haste to answer, it was 
M. de Brencourt who reph^, The old lady whom the 
Abbe has been visiting next door is, apparently, suffering 
from delusions about Mirabel — ^that chateau of the Due 
de Trelan’s near Paris. That is what M. de la Vergne 
means.” 

” This is interesting,” observed the Marquis de Kersaint, 
turning further round to look at the little priest, who had 
not advanced a step since Artamene’s jest. ” And did you 
learn anything fresh about Mirabel, Abbe ? ” 

” Yes, I did. Monsieur le Marquis,” answered the priest 
rather shortly. 

” May we hear it ? ” 

M. Chassin was silent, and seemed to be considering this 
request. Artamene saw his face, and it was oddly per- 
turbed. 

” We are not, I hope, inviting you to reveal the secrets 
of the confessional ? ” 

” No.” 

” Why may we not hear it, then ? ” 

” Because,” said the Abb^ gravely, ” it is more suited 
for your private ear. Monsieur le Marquis.” 

” Why ? ” asked M. de Brencourt, instantly, looking 
from one to the other, ” why for M. de Kersaint ’s private 
ear?” 

This question the Abbe seemed totally unable to answer, 
and after a second or two the Marquis de Kersaint said 
carelessly to his subordinate, ” Because M. Chassin knows 
that I am a kinsman of the Due de Trelan’s, I suppose.” 

” A kinsman of the Due de Trelan’s — ^you ! ” exclaimed 
the Comte de Brencourt in obvious surprise. ” A near 
kinsman ? ” 

” No, no, very distant,” replied his leader quickly. 

And that is why I cannot conceive how a disclosure 
affecting his property can possibly be destined for my ear 
alone. So let us all hear it, if you please. Monsieur I’Abb^.” 

M. de Brencourt, still under the empire of surprise or 
some other emotion, continued to look at this kinsman of 
M. de Trelan’s very fixedly ; so, from where he still stood 
near the door, did the priest. A better light would have 
revealed entreaty in his eyes. 

" Well, Monsieur I’Abbe, I am waiting ! ” said the 
c 


34 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Marquis de Kersaint rather haughtily, and in the fashion 
of a man who has never been used to that discipline. 

The Abbe set his lips obstinately. “ It will keep well 
enough till to-morrow, Monsieur le Marquis.” 

” Wiat, a communication from the dying ? And who 
knows whether we shall all see to-morrow ? Come, Abbe, 
I command you ! — Roland, a chair here for M. Chassin.” 

Whether the priest could have stood out, had he willed, 
against that masterful voice and gesture, at any rate he 
did not. 

” Very well. Marquis,” said he, and Artamene, thrilled 
to the core, thought, ” * Tu I'as voulu, Georges Dandin ! * 
That's what he would really like to say, our Abbe ! ” 
And since their leader had intimated that the matter was 
not private after all, he applied himself to listen with all 
his ears. Roland, looking rather troubled, set a chair at 
the table for the priest and stood back. 

” You must know then. Monsieur le Marquis,” began the 
Abbe in a low voice, ” that the old lady whom I have been 
visiting had been present at the festivities in 1771, when 
the . . . tht young Due de Trelan married his bride.” 

” That beautiful and most unfortunate lady ! ” com- 
mented M. de Brencourt under his breath. 

The Marquis glanced at him for the fraction of a second, 
and the priest went on, nervously rubbing his hands to- 
gether, and rather pale : 

” It seems that there is a legend of a treasure hidden in 
Mirabel since the days of the Fronde, a treasure whose 
whereabouts no one has ever been able to discover. Since 
you are a kinsman of M. de Trelan's, Monsieur le Marquis, 
it is possible that you have heard of the legend ? ” 

M. de Kersaint nodded thoughtfully. ” I believe I have 
heard of it. Yes ? ” 

” The story appears to be true. The document describ- 
ing the hiding-place of the treasure was stolen at the time 
— ^nearly a hundred and fifty years ago — and came into the 
possession of this old lady’s family, but in such a way 
that it was only recently rediscovered by the old lady 
herself.” 

What an extraordinary tale I Well ? ” 

Since then she had desired to give it to the Due, but 
could not, as he was not in France. And in her dehrium 


THE GIFT IS RECEIVED 


35 


just now. fancying herself back at the wedding, she was 
talking so persistently of offering to the . . . the young 
couple, as a wedding gift, this paper, which would help 
them to what was after aU their own, that M. 
Chariot ” 

** A wedding gift for de Trelan and his wife 1 interposed 
the Comte de Brencourt with a laugh. Bon Dieu, what 
irony, considering how their wedded life ended ! 

Surely that need not concern us now. Monsieur de 
Brencourt 1 ** said his leader coldly. ** Go on please, 
Abbe.” 

” By the most curious coincidence,” pursued M. Chassin, 
his eyes fixed on the Marquis, ” M. Chariot asked me, as a 
priest, to see if I could not set the old lady’s mind at rest 
by some means. She did at last regain control of her 
senses, and I was able in the end to assure her that I could 
and would despatch the document, if she entrusted me 
with it, to the proper quarter.” 

” And she gave it you ? ” asked the Marquis, bending 
forward with some eagerness. 

” I have it here now,” answered the priest, touching his 
breast. 

M. de Kersaint drew back again, and Artamene was 
struck with his resemblance to a chess player who is 
meditating the next move. But only the Marquis de 
Kersaint himself and the man whom he had forced into 
pla 5 dng out this gambit with him, fully realised the awkward 
position into which his insistence had got them. 

” So I must make it my business to despatch it, somehow, 
to M. le Due,” finished the Abbe. ” It was of course my 
knowledge that you were kin to him, Monsieur le Marquis, 
which made me accept the trust, as I knew I could rely on 
your assistance.” 

But the Marquis was looking down at the table and 
said nothing. 

” The document will hardly be of much use to M. de 
Trdan when he does get it,” remarked the Comte de Bren- 
court. ” Mirabel, I have heard, is now a museum or some- 
thing of the sort ; at any rate it is in government hands. 
And M. de Troian — where is M. de Trdan ? In England 
still ? No, hardly. One never hears of him. Perhaps 
he is dead.” 


36 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** No, he is alive,’* replied his kinsman briefly, lifting his 
eyes for a second. 

“ Ah ! But how is he going to profit by this treasure, 
even if it is still there ? ” 

“ Nevertheless, I must fulfil my trust,” observed M. 
Chassin, looking across the table at M. de Kersaint’s 
lowered head. 

” Oh, undoubtedly, Abb4, though I do not know how 
you are going to do it even with M. de Kersaint’s 
cousinly ... is it cousinly ? . . . assistance. What do 
you yourself think of the problem. Marquis ? ” 

The Marquis de Kersaint raised his head. ” I think,” 
he said slowly, looking hard at M. Chassin, ” that the Abbe 
is right. M. de Troian must be informed, somehow. But 
at the same time, since it is practically out of the question 
for him, in exile, to take any steps in the matter — and 
would be difficult and dangerous even were he in France 
— and since our need for money is so pressing at this 
moment, I would propose ” 

” What ? ” asked the Comte. 

” To ask, as his kinsman, for his authorisation to use 
the treasure, if we can come at it, for the needs of Finistere 
— ^that is to say, for the King’s service.” 

” O sir, do you think we could ! ” cried Roland eagerly, 
starting forward. 

” O, Mon ieur le Marquis, send us to Mirabel ! ” cried 
Artamene. 

“You are going too fast, gentlemen. We must first get 
the Due’s leave to pillage his property, even though it be 
confiscated.” 

“ Do you think you will have difficulty in getting it ? ” 
asked the Comte de Brencourt, narrowing his eyes. 

“ No, I do not think so As you have yourself pointed 
out, Comte, how is M. de Trelan going to profit, in any 
case, by this suddenly revealed hoard ? ” 

“ Well, when the King comes into his own again, it 
would be of no small service to the Due, a fund in his own 
chateau ! I expect his financial resources, great as they 
once were, are much embarrassed. He could hardly have 
been accused of husbanding them I ” 

“ You seem to know a great deal about the private 
affairs of M. de Trelan, Comte ! ” observed M. de Kersaint 


THE GIFT IS RECEIVED 


37 


drily, turning and looking at him. “ I might observe 
that no honest man has gained by the Revolution, and that 
those with much to lose have lost proportionately. How- 
ever, if my kinsman takes the view that you suggest — 
which I do not think he will — ^he must be induced to look 
upon our present proposed use of the money as a loan to 
His Majesty. After il, it was never of any advantage to 
him as long as he was unaware of its existence or of its 
whereabouts, and of these, apparently, he never would 
have known but for the extraordinary coincidence of 
which the Abbe has just told us.'* 

** But," suggested M. de Brencourt, " before approaching 
him on the subject — through you — might it not be as well 
to get a sight of this precious document, so that we may 
form some idea as to whether the amount will repay the 
risking a man's neck o find, and whether it will prove 
easy to come at ? " 

The priest and M. de Kersaint looked at one another. 
" Yes, I think we might do that without indiscretion," 
said the latter, after a moment's hesitation. " Do not you, 
Abb^ ? " 

M. Chassin made no reply in words, but drew out from 
his coat the parchment received from the dying woman 
and gave it into the hands of his leader. The Marquis de 
Kersaint spread out the ancient memorandum on the 
table, moved the candles in their bottles nearer, and the 
three men studied in silence the rough diagram and its 
legend. Nor were Roland and Artamene, in the back- 
ground, innocent of craning their necks to see likewise. 

" Ten bags — two thousand five hundred pistoles in 
each," murmured the Comte reflectively. " How much is 
that, I wonder, in modern money ? And there are jewels 
too, apparently." 

The Marquis de Kersaint's bps were compressed, his 
face an enigma. " It certainly appears to be worth taking 
risks for," he said at last. Money is what we most need 
in the world now for Finistere. We can get the men ; the 
last few months have shown me that clearly, but of what 
use are unarmed men ? " 

" Less than none," observed his second in command. 
"This document, therefore, seems singularly hke a gift 
from heaven." 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


38 


“ I shall certainly communicate with M. de Trelan without 
delay/' said the Marquis. '' May I keep this parchment, 
Abbe ? " 

I had hoped that you would charge yourself with its 
despatch, Monsieur le Marquis,” replied the priest, and 
M. de Kersaint without more ado folded it up and put it 
in his breast. 

” It seems to me, de Kersaint,” said the Comte de Bren- 
court reflectively, playing with the cards which still 
strewed the table, ” that, considering all things, the excep- 
tional circumstances, our pressing needs, the possibility 
that you may never succeed in communicating with the 
Due — wherever he may be — that we could hardly be 
blamed if we took the law into our own hands, and did not 
wait for his authorisation. After all, the risk would be ours.” 

” That solution had already occurred to me, I admit,” 
said the Marquis, with the ghost of a smile, while mute 
applause from MM. de Celigny and de la Vergne greeted 
the Comte’s suggestion. ” But the affair is in a sense the 
Abbe's, and entrusted to him.” 

” I am quite content to abide by your decision. Mon- 
sieur le Marquis,” replied the priest sedately. 

” But, de Kersaint,” objected the Comte, evidently 
struck by a sudden idea, ” have you not some reversionary 
interest in the treasure yourself, if you are kin to M. de 
Trelan ? Should we not ultimately be robbing you, 
perhaps ? ” 

No, I am not sufficiently nearly related to the Due for 
that,” returned the Marquis quickly. ” I am connected 
with him by marriage only — a distant kinsman.” 

” Perhaps you will allow me to congratulate you on 
that, then,” said M. de Brencourt in a sombre tone. “ For 
myself, I should not care to think that I had near ties of 
blood with a man who, in safety himself, left his wife to 
perish as he did ! ” 

An electric shock seemed at these words to communicate 
itself to the other two men. M. de Kersaint’s right hand, 
which rested on the table in the ring of candlelight, was 
seen instantly to clench itself. The next instant the Abbe, 
by a sudden clumsy movement, sent the candle nearest to 
him to the floor where, with a crash of the bottle, it was 
immediately extinguished. 


THE GIFT IS RECEIVED 


39 


" Pardon me, Monsieur le Comte ! he interposed 
quickly, bending forward. ** — ^Dear me, how awkward I 
am ! — Pardon me, but you do the Due de Troian a great 
injustice, surely! How could he, an emigre to whom 
France was closed, possibly rescue a woman immured in 
a Paris prison ? The thing is preposterous. Besides, he 
probably knew nothing about her being there tiU all was 
over. I have heard that Mirabel was not sacked till August 
the thirtieth, and the prison massacres, you will remember, 
began on the second of September.'’ 

“ You seem very much the champion of M. de Troian, 
Abbe I ” remarked the Comte, looking at him hard. 

You have wasted a candle over him.” 

” One should try, surely, to be just to those who caimot 
answer for themselves,” retorted the priest. ” Moreover, I 
am certain M. de Kersaint would bear me out in what I 
say.” 

” He does not seem to be in any great haste to do so,” 
observed the other, half to himself, and his eyes suddenly 
moved to the clenched hand. 

” I am too much amazed at your attack on my kinsman,” 
retorted the Marquis, in a voice unlike his own. ” It is 
incredible that such a thing should be said in France of 
M. de Troian — that he could have saved his wife and did • 
not ! ” 

The Comte shrugged his shoulders. ” I do not know 
that it is what others say, for I imagine that few people 
trouble their heads about de Trelan now-a-days. But it is 
what I think — though as a matter of fact you are putting 
more into my words than I actually uttered. Perhaps 
I am prejudiced. I knew that lady many years ago,” 
he went on, with lowered eyes, fidgeting with the cards 
again, ” the most gracious of God’s creatures, and to 
remember that she went, abandoned by everybody, through 
that door, saw, as her last glimpse of life, those obscene 
faces, that gutter running with blood, that mound 
of ” 

The priest jumped up and seized him by the arm. 
” For God’s sake, stop. Monsieur de Brencourt 1 ” he 
whispered. ” Do you not know that most of M. de Ker- 
saint’s family perished in the massacres I ” 

And at that the Comte did stop. After a moment 


40 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


M. de Kersaint removed the hand with which he had 
covered his eyes. 

“ I should indeed be glad if you would spare me that 
subject,” he said, in a scarcely audible voice, not looking 
at either of them. Even the one remaining candle showed 
him to be frightfully pale. “I . . . I cannot . . . perhaps 
we should finish this discussion ... in the morning. It 
is already very late.” 

“Yes, it is very late,” agreed the Comte, plainly rather 
horrified. He leant over the table. “ Can you forgive me. 
Marquis ? Of course I was not aware, and I regret ” 

“ I knew that,” said M. de Kersaint with a palpable 
effort, and touched the hand which the other held out. 
And so ended the reception of Mile Magny’s wedding gift. 


CHAPTER IV 

A VERY YOUNG MAN 

Roland de Celigny, waking with a start, wondered for 
a moment where he was. Then he raised himself on his 
elbow and looked about him. 

The dawn was shpping a slim, cool hand into the strangely 
populated attic, and the grey light invested furniture and 
sleepers alike with quite a different appearance from last 
night's. Roland himself had insisted on giving up his 
pallet permanently to Le Bl^-aux-Champs, because of his 
hurt, and had ensconced himself at the other side of the 
attic. Over in his old place Chouan and noble, ahke young 
and alike wounded, lay side by side, the only difference in 
their condition being that the peasant, for all his protests, 
had the better couch. But, hke M. de Brencourt, huddled 
on the little sofa of worn, gilt-striped rose brocade, and the 
Abbe, of whom he could see only the feet projecting round 
a wardrobe, they both appeared to be asleep, despite 
their injuries ; and Roland knew that Artamene's gave him 
no slight pain at times. 

But he could not be altogether sorry for his friend's 
wound. For, since it was M. de la Vergne's right arm 
that had suffered, it had fallen to the Vicomte de Celigny 
to write at his dictation a line of reassurance to his mother 
and sister in Finistere. And thus Roland's own fingers 
had formed, if his brain had not ori^nated, the words 
which would undoubtedly have the happiness of penetrating 
into the little ears of Mile Marthe de la Vergne, even, 
probably, that of being read by her brilliant dark eyes. 
And she would know, too, from the contents of the letter 
who had penned it. The question whether she would care 
was one which he did not like to press overmuch, for he 
had very little to go upon, poor Roland, since Marthe 
had grown up — one meeting under the eyes of Mme 
de la Vergne in the wide, cool salon of the chateau with its 

41 


42 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


shining floor, and Mile Marthe rising from tambour work 
at its farther end ; and one brief message of good wishes 
with which his friend Artamene, her fortunate brother, 
was found to be charged when Roland met him a few weeks 
ago at the rallying-place. 

Roland could have wished that his friend’s flesh wound 
were his own, that he also had something with a tinge of 
suffering and heroism about it, of which Mile Marthe could 
have been informed, to which she might even have given 
a moment’s regret. Or, better still, if it could have been, 
that the injury had happened so near the Chateau de la 
Vergne as to leave no alternative but to take the sufferer 
in and tend him there. Alas, Roland neither possessed 
the requisite damage, nor had the Chateau de la Vergne 
the desired proximity to the scene of the little defeat at la 
Croix-Fendue. 

Besides, if anything untoward happened to him, he was 
under promise to return, if possible, to his grandfather, 
with whom he lived. 

Roland did not remember his mother, and of his father, 
though he had died only about a year and a half ago, he 
had seen extremely little. Three years after Mme de Ce- 
ligny’s death he had been committed, a child of five years 
old, to the care of his maternal grandfather, the Baron de 
Came, and by him he had been brought up at Kerhdec, 
in Brittany, separated by the breadth of France from his 
patrimony near Avignon. He had seldom visited this, or 
his morose parent, though when he did, M. de Celigny had 
always made a point of initiating him, young as he was, 
into the management of the estate which would one day 
be his — for the Vicomte, unlike so many landowners in 
those troubled years, had never been dispossessed. But 
Roland was much fonder of the stern and passionate old 
man who had brought him up, and who had for him such 
exquisite tendernesses ; and he had become too much 
accustomed to hving with a grandfather rather than with 
a father to find the arrangement surprising. He had, 
moreover, few friends of his own age to comment on its 
unusual character, since his education had been entirely 
conducted at Kerlidec by his grandfather and a tutor or 
two. Artamene de la Vergne, who lived at no very great 
distance, was, in fact, his only intimate. 


A VERY YOUNG MAN 


43 


Yet in the end, through no fault of the Vicomte de 
Celigny's other than an unfortunate choice of the moment 
of his death, his estates did not come to Roland at all. 
He died very suddenly of heart disease just after the coup 
d’etat of ’ 97 , and the Directory at once seized the property 
on the specious pretext that the heir was an emigre. Be- 
cause the events of Fructidor had revived the legislation 
against that unfortunate class, it had taken a year and a 
half and very cautious moves indeed on the part of the 
Baron de Came even to get his grandson’s name removed 
from that inauspicious list on which, like many another, 
it wrongly figured, and Roland was not yet in possession 
of his iidieritance. His present proceedings, if the Govern- 
ment became aware of them, were still less likely to hasten 
that event. 

And these proceedings had been entered into against 
M. de Camp’s wishes ; another had overborne that strong 
will of his. To this day Roland could not quite understand 
how it had been done. For a moment he lived again 
through the episode of his quasi-abduction from Kerhdec 
last February ; — ^that strained interview (at part of which 
he had been present) between his grandfather and the tall, 
commanding visitor who, turning out, to Roland’s surprise 
and delight, to be the Marquis de Kersaint, the hero of the 
lost day of Rivoh, enlisting hkely young men to fight for 
the King later on in Finistere, had asked M. de Came if 
Roland might come with him — provided Roland himself 
were willing. Of Roland’s willingness — rather, rapture — 
there could be no question, but M. de Kersaint had insisted 
on the Baron’s formal consent ; and this, on the under- 
standing that Roland was to be regarded strictly as a loan, 
and returned, had been given . . . but given with such 
palpable, almost venomous hostility that the youth 
could not imagine why it should have been vouchsafed 
at all. 

The end of the episode, too, just because it puzzled him, 
was bitten into his memory. Grandfather and grandson 
were on the perron watching the unbidden guest ride away 
down the dripping avenue — for Roland was to join him, 
with Artamene, a few days later — and Roland, boyhke, 
had exclaimed at his admirable seat on a horse. 

As you say, Roland, a damnably good seat 1 ” M. de 


44 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Carn6 had returned harshly. ** A damnable air of assur- 
ance altogether! Quite enough to turn a young man’s 

head, or for that matter a ” He checked himself, and 

said with bitterness that they must begin to think of 
Roland’s preparations. And when the young man remorse- 
fully replied, ** Not yet, grandpere 1 It is growing dark ; 
let us think of our game of chess 1 ” his grandfather retorted, 
looking at him in a way that he could not fathom, ** Chess ! 
Poor little pawn, you have been taken I ” 

But if it were so, the pawn certainly had no objection. 

And now, indeed, feehng a sense of elation,' almost of 
importance, at being apparently the only one awake in 
this company, Roland looked past the intervening furniture 
towards the two large chairs in which M. de Kersaint had 
elected to spend the night. Well, he was still stretched 
in them, long and rather shadowy in outline, but Roland 
doubted if he were asleep, for as he gazed at him he heard 
the Marquis move and sigh. 

The adoration tempered with awe which Roland felt for 
him had received, if it needed it, a fresh impetus through 
last night’s happenings. An eager and interested witness 
of the scene’s beginning, an unwiUing and indignant one 
of its close, Roland had felt, and stiU felt, that he hated 
M. de Brencourt for the torture to which, even unwittingly, 
he had put him, as anyone could see. And why, as Arta- 
mene had whispered to him afterwards, had M. de Bren- 
court displayed such an aversion to the Due de Trelan ? 

What was M. de Kersaint going to do, he wondered, 
about this business of Mirabel ? The name seemed to 
have a faintly familiar sound, though he could have 
sworn that he had never heard it before. As he strove 
to recover the connection a glorious thought shot sud- 
denly into his mind. If only M. de Kersaint would let 
him go to Paris in search of this treasure 1 There — ^if his 
search were successful, as of course it would be — shone 
in truth a deed worthy to lay at the feet of Mile Marthe 
de la Vergne 1 

Wrapped in the warm and rosy imaginings which this 
idea brought to him Roland dropped ofi to sleep again — 
a light slumber in which he had a distinct impression that 
M. de Kersaint came and stood for some time looking 
down on him, and from which he woke to find the attic 


A VERY YOUNG MAN 


45 


grown considerably lighter, and M. de Kersaint*s sleeping- 
place, to which he instantly glanced, empty. Everybody 
else seemed to be slumbering as before. 

It was a moment or two before Roland's eyes found 
his leader, in the farthest comer of the attic, seated side- 
ways at a Httle table, writing — at least, with a pen between 
his fingers. His chin was propped on his fist, and the 
young daylight as it entered silhouetted his fine profile 
with sufficient clearness for the observer to be sure that 
his thoughts were not pleasant ones. 

“ All his family massacred ! " sprang into Roland’s 
mind. “ He is thinking of that — or of how to retrieve la 
Croix-Fendue, or perhaps how to get the treasure from 
Mirabel . . . How handsome he is ! ” And on Roland, 
himself as unconscious of his own good looks as it is possible 
for a young man to be, came the resolve to use this Heaven- 
sent opportunity for the furtherance of his own desires. 

Rising very quietly from the floor, he picked his way, 
half dressed as he was, among furniture and sleepers till 
he came to the window. 

“ Monsieur le Marquis ! ” 

M. de Kersaint started and looked round. ** Roland, 
what are you doing ? ” he asked in a whisper. 

I have been awake before,” said Roland, as if that 
were a reply. 

” Well ? ” 

” I want to ask you something, sir.” 

” If,” said M. de Kersaint, studying him as he stood 
there in his shirt and breeches, ” if it is to repeat La 
Vergne’s request of last night about Mirabel, I may as well 
tell you at once, my boy, that it is of no use.” 

The youth’s visage so manifestly fell that his leader 
could not help smiling. 

” I see that I guessed right. No, my dear boy, this 
business, if ever it gets itself done at all, is work for a much 
older head than yours.” 

” I am not so young. Monsieur le Marquis,” pleaded the 
aspirant, in the same discreet tone. ” I shall be twenty 
this year.” 

“Yes, but not until the very end of it,” retorted M. de 
Kersaint with promptitude. 

The child of December was first taken aback, then 


46 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


flattered, that the date of his obscure birthday should be 
known to his hero, who was now looking at him half- 
teasingly, a mood in which Roland especially adored him. 
Then the petitioner recovered himself. 

“ But even if you think me young, sir,’* he went on 
with fervour, ” nobody here, however much older he 
is ” 

” Has any experience of house-breaking,” he was going 
on to say, when the words were cut short by a grasp on 
his arm. He turned, and M. de Kersaint, who had moment- 
arily lowered his gaze, lifted it at the same instant so that 
they both beheld the Chevalier de la Vergne, sling and all. 

” What, another ! ” exclaimed M. de Kersaint. ” Mor- 
bleu ! ” 

” I felt sure that he was tiying to steal a march on me, 
Monsieur le Marquis,” explained Artamene. ” If anyone 
is to go to Mirabel ” 

” It would certainly not be you. La Vergne, with that 
arm,” interposed his leader. ” However, there is no 
question of Mirabel for either of you.” 

” But ” began both the candidates. 

” If you want to know my plans, gentlemen,” said 
M. de Kersaint then, with a touch of impatience, real or 
assumed, ” they are, as far as regards yourselves, these — 
a return, for the present, to your own firesides.” 

** We are to go back home I ” ejaculated the horror-struck 
Artamene. 

Amusement shot again into M. de Kersaint 's eyes at 
the tone, but because of its pitch he laid his finger on his 
hps. ” It is not designed as a punishment, believe me, my 
children. But our drawing of the sword was premature ; 
I always feared it, and I have resolved, for the present, 
to disband. It will only be for a month or two, probably.” 

” But — ^but you will send for us again, sir ? ” stammered 
Roland. All the brightness seemed suddenly to have 
departed from life. 

” Most certainly. I could not get on without my aides- 
de-camp. Now go back to your beds and leave me to 
finish what I am doing.” 

It was two exceedingly dispirited young men who 
returned to their couches. ” To be sent home like school- 
boys I ” whispered Roland, who had left his with such 


A VERY YOUNG MAN 


47 

hopes. But they were too dejected to discuss the catas- 
trophe. Happy Lucien, who had slept through its an- 
nouncement ! They sat side by side on Artamene’s blanket, 
and looked at each other, while close by the young Chouan, 
who was awake, moved restlessly. What, if they were 
going to separate, was to become of him ? Perhaps this 
unspoken query gave Artamene his great idea. 

“ I am not fit to take the journey to La Vergne alone,’* 
he whispered suddenly in Roland’s ear. “ Will you escort 
me? ” 

Will I not ? ” responded his friend, his eyes sparkling 
again. 

With the full advent of morning came the good M. Char- 
iot and a servant, bringing coffee and rolls to the un 
accustomed guestchamber. To this welcome refreshment 
he joined the more than welcome news that the troops 
who had nearly intercepted the Marquis and his guide last 
night had marched out at dawn, and in an hour or so it 
would be quite safe to depart. Also, the wounded man 
could now be moved downstairs to a bed and cared for until 
his foot was healed. 

“ Excellent, my dear Monsieur Chariot,” said the Mar- 
quis de Kersaint. ” And — ^the other matter ? ” 

” I have already sent to the place. Monsieur, and a 
message has come back that the person your honours are 
expecting has not yet arrived.” 

Artamene and Roland looked at each other over their 
coffee-bowls. They cherished a faint hope, now rapidly 
withering, that they might catch a ghmpse of this famous 
person ere departing. 

But very shortly afterwards, as it seemed, the three 
of them had put together their small belongings, had 
received their last instructions, and had learnt how, when 
the summons came to them again, it would probably be to a 
more lasting campaign. The Marquis de Kersaint hoped 
by the summer to have a regular headquarters at least — 
to keep always on foot an army of Chouans was impossible 
— in short, to be in a larger way of business. But even these 
bright predictions did not cheer ‘les jeunes,’ as the Abbe 
called them, very much. 

” All I can do, mes enfants,” said their leader to them 


48 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


in conclusion, is to wish you a safe return and a better 
meeting. Remember my recommendations as to prudence 
in your journeys. — I am not sure that I ought to let you 
travel in that condition, Artamene.” 

And when the youth hastened to inform him that he 
would have the advantage of Roland's care and company 
M. de Kersaint smiled and said, ** Very well. But, Roland, 
remember that your real destination is not La Vergne, 
but Kerhdec. My honour is engaged, as you know, in 
sending you back to your grandfather. Good-bye, Lucien ; 
you wiU now have leisure to proceed with your study of the 
Mantuan.” 

The Abbe had already given them his blessing ; the 
Comte had gone to the place appointed to await Cadoudal. 
Even Le Ble-aux-Champs had been carried downstairs. 
So when the Marquis had shaken hands with them there 
was nothing for the three young men to do but to go. 
And they went. 

But they had not got beyond the next turn on the dusky 
staircase before they heard M. de Kersaint 's voice on the 
landing above them. 

” Roland,” it called down, ” come back a moment, will 
you ? I have a message for M. de Came.” 

Wondering, the young Vicomte went up again, nearly 
to the top, where the tall figure was standing. 

I only wish you to point out to him,” said the Marquis, 

that I am fulfilling my promise. That is all.” 

Then he added, in a different tone, ” May God keep you, 
my boy ! ” and stooping, kissed him on the forehead. 


CHAPTER V 

TU MARCELLUS ERIS 


" And so, exeunt * les jeunes,' ** said the Marquis de Ker- 
saint, coming back into the attic and shutting the door 
after him. 

Its only remaining occupant, the Abbe Chassin, looked 
up from his breviary where he sat on the old b ocade sofa. 

“ I could wish,” he observed, ” that they had departed 
earher — or at least that young La Vergne had done so, 
before he brought about what happened last night, by his 
mention of the word Mirabel.’ But what, Gaston, in 
the name of all the saints, possessed you to force me to give 
you the memorandum like that, before everybody ? Of 
course I only meant to put it into your hands when we were 
alone ! ” 

The Marquis de Kersaint, seeming to find it perfectly 
natural to be addressed thus familiarly by his inferior, 
shrugged his shoulders. ” Why then, my dear Pierre, did 
you, in your turn, say before everybody that your informa- 
tion was for my private ear ? A slip of that kind is 
unhke you. How could I possibly accept for my private 
ear any news about the place ? ” 

” No, perhaps not, but your persistence, if you wiU for- 
give my saying so, rather drove me into a comer. How- 
ever, I dare say we were both equally to blame, I for not 
being readier-witted, and you for — well, for taking the bull 
a httle too much by the horns.” 

M. de Kersaint, evidently not at all resenting these 
criticisms, looked down at the priest. Above all things 
I did not want to create a mystery,” be aid. 

” And instead of that you created a kinsman,” observed 
the Abbe with a half smile, and then became grave again. 
” It was very unfortunate, the whole thing, but naturally 
we had neither of us any idea of what it was going to 
lead to.” 


D 


49 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


50 

The Marquis de Kersaint's face darkened. He turned 
away, and began to walk up and down. ** You made a 
fine holocaust of my imaginary family," he said after a 
moment. 

" I had to stop him somehow,” replied the Abb^ briefly. 
He had closed his book, and was watching the pacing 
figure. 

” So that,” said M. de Kersaint after another silence, 
” that is how a Frenchman, an 6migr6 himself, judges the 
conduct of the Due de Trdan ! I thought it was only in 
England that they did not understand.” 

The priest had risen. ” Gaston,” he said firmly, ” as I 
said to the Comte last night, and as I would repeat it at 
my last hour, in the matter of Mme de Trelan’s death 
I hold that no one was to blame — save her murderers. 
She could not have been saved. Did his Highness the 
Due de Penthi^vre save his daughter ? We know that he 
tried. Not an archangel could have saved Mme de Lam- 
balle. So with Mme de Troian that day. You know 
that as well as I, and M. de Brencourt, if he were not 
ridden by some demon of spite, knows it too.” 

” She went through that door, as he said,” continued 
M. de Kersaint. He had come to a standstill ; his face was 

ashen. ” She saw ... all that . . . before And 

she might have taken the road to England and safety two 
years earlier.” 

” It is true,” answered the priest. ” She had the 
chance.” 

” Yes,” said his foster-brother, looking at him as if 
he did not see him, ” she had the chance . . . and refused 
it. I cannot tell de Brencourt that. But, O my God, 
what a tragedy of mistakes ! ” 

He was backed now against a huge old wardrobe, motion- 
less, almost as if he were nailed to it, voice and eyes alike 
full of that seven years’ old horror and anguish. 

” It was but a mistake, a misunderstanding, then, 
Gaston,” said the priest quickly. "You acknowledge 
that, you see ! ” 

The man against the wardrobe gave a laugh. ” But 
what is worse than a mistake, Pierre ? Not a crime, 
certainly. Mistakes appear, at least, to be more heavily 
visited in this world. It seems to me that I am about 


TU MARCELLUS ERIS 


51 


to begin a fresh series of payments for mine. ... As for 
her, if she made any, she paid — how much more than 
paid ! — in that moment of martyrdom that does not bear 
thinking of, that I still dream about, it seems to me, almost 
every night. . . . Now, if it is to be dragged out as de 
Brencourt dragged it yesterday, I shall wish you had not 
turned me from my purpose seven years ago.” 

Dear saints, thought the priest, looking at him compas- 
sionately, are we, after all he has suffered, to go once more 
through the inferno of those dreadful days in England ? 
For a moment he saw again that lofty, richly-furnished 
room in London where the proudest man whom Pierre 
Chassin had ever met or read of sat with his whole 
existence fallen in a day to ruins about him — his honour 
tarnished and his self-respect in the dust. For he 
had that day received the appalling news of his wife’s 
butchery in prison — not having known, even, that she was 
a prisoner — and he had heard also that he was in con- 
sequence being talked about in no flattering terms through- 
out those same London drawing-rooms where he had 
been so courted. Indeed — not then knowing why — 
he had that very morning been cut in St. James's Street 
by two of his most intimate English acquaintances. . . . 
The candlelight on his escritoire, running over the darkly 
shining mahogany before him, had showed the weapon 
ready to his hand when the shabby little emii re priest, 
who had come hotfoot at the news, succeeded in forcing 
his way past the terrified servants into that forbidden 
room . . . only to be ordered, in a voice that made him 
quail, to depart instantly. He had sometimes wondered 
himself what had given him the courage to disobey, and 
to stand, as he had done, for a whole night between the 
Due de Trelan and suicide. Even to-day he could scarcely 
bear to think of the naked agony and conflict of that vigil, 
and it was very rarely referred to by either of them. 

He went up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. 

O my brother, if you would only cease to torment your- 
self ! You have not, you never have had, a shadow of 
real responsibility for your wife's death.” 

** Easy to believe, is it not ? " remarked the other with 
a ghastly smile, ” when men speak still as de Brencourt 
spoke last night I " 


52 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


The Abb 4 made an almost impatient movement. It 
is quite impossible that the Comte really thinks what he 
says ! Why, thousands of men emigrated without their 
wives, — ^just as some wives without their husbands — ^and 
no one thought it anything but natural and right in those 
days ... a duty even ! All the noblesse were equally 
blinded as to what was coming. And can you seriously 
maintain that afiy blame attaches to you for what happened 
two years later, because you were no clearer-sighted than 
the rest — the rest who, like you, were in exile ? 

But the rest,** said the Marquis de Kersaint, staring 
down before him at his locked hands, were not, in 1792, 
merely amusing themselves in exile, whatever they may 
have been doing in 1790. . . . Even though I had not 
been by her side, if I had been where I ought to have been 
long before, in the army of the Princes or with Conde, do 
you think that de Brencourt would say . . . those things ? 
Or that they would be like death to me, if he did ? . . . 
You see you cannot answer that, Pierre ! ** 

Mon frere,** said M. Chassin quietly, ** that delay 
has been expiated. The question for the moment is, 
whether M. le Comte suspects your identity.** 

M. de Kersaint moved a little. “ Do you think he 
possibly can ? I never remember seeing him before in my 
life, until he was assigned to me last December in Jersey 
as my lieutenant.** 

** And if he had ever chanced to see you before the 
Revolution,** went on the priest musingly, ** this bitter 
resentment he seems to have would have shown itself 
ere now. No, he could have had no grounds for sus- 
picion of any kind before last night and the business of 
Mirabel. It was evidently only the mention of that 
name that roused him. If he begins to have . . . ideas 
. . . my advice to you, Gaston, is to tell him who you are. 
He knows, as most people do, about the part you played 
at Rivoli, not to speak of what you are doing now, so he 
would not continue ** 

Never ! ** broke in the Marquis, making a violent 
gesture of negation. I desire never to hear that old 
name of mine again in this life ! And I forbid you once 
more to tell anyone in the world — anyone — ^whatever you 
might think would be gained by it ! Is it a promise ? ** 


TU MARCELLUS ERIS 


53 


“ You have had my promise once for all, Gaston/* 

'' I will never see you again if you break it ! *’ said his 
foster-brother with vehemence. 

Have I kept it so ill these seven years, then, that you 
think a threat is necessary ? ** asked the priest gently. 

Oh, my dear Pierre, forgive me ! *’ cried the other 
instantly, and he held out his hand. “ When a man 
starts threatening the best friend he ever had, to whom 
he owes not only his life but his sanity, it looks rather as if 
that sanity was leaving him ! ** 

“ I do not see much signs of that,** said the priest, with a 
smile, as he took the proffered hand. And last night’s 
business was horrible. I have always thought,” he went on 
reflectively, ” that M. le Comte was an embittered man.” 

” If I had known,” said his foster-brother in a low voice, 
” that he had ever met her, I would never have consented 
to work with him. . . . But I never should have known 
save for this strange business of Mirabel.” 

” And that is a business which must be attended to, 
I suppose,” the priest reminded him. 

” Yes, I suppose so, too,” said M. de Kersaint rather 
wearily. He went to the nearest table, and sitting down 
pulled out the parchment and flattened it out on it. The 
Abbe came and studied it over his shoulder for a while in 
silence. 

” Well, what do you think of it, Gaston ? ** 

” I have very little doubt that it is genuine. As a child, 
I once heard my grandfather speak of the legend, but he 
dismissed it as being only a legend. In those days I 
thought the idea romantic and fascinating. Did I never 
mention it to you when I came to Rosmadel ? *’ 

” Never,*’ said the priest, suddenly seeing himself as he 
was in those days, a little barefooted boy going birdsnesting 
with a young prince in velvet whom he had the right to call 
brother. ” Had you done so I should not have forgotten 
it.” 

” I do not believe that I ever gave it a thought after I 
came to man’s estate,” went on the Marquis musingly. 
” It must have gone back to the region of fairy stories. 
And this old lady — what was her name ? — you did not 
mention it, I think.** 

” Purposely so,” replied the Abbe, dropping into a chair 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


54 

beside him. ** Her name was Magny, Mile Magny. She 
was for years, she said, tiring-woman to Mme la Duchesse 
Douairiere.’' 

His hearer clasped his hands over his eyes. I remem- 
ber the name,” he said after a moment. “ I recall her too, 
I think. She must be well advanced in years now.” 

” She was yesterday,” agreed the priest. ” To-day — 
who knows ? ” 

The Marquis looked up. She is dead then ? I did not 
gather that.” 

” She died while I was with her.” They both fell silent, 
M. de Kersaint fingering the parchment — gone back also, 
thought the priest, to a distant wedding-day. 

” Gaston, give me your hand ! ” he said suddenly, stretch- 
ing out his own. ” No, not that one, the other.” And 
when the Marquis in surprise had complied, the Abbe, 
^ holding the so dissimilar fingers in his own, tapped with a 
forefinger on the signet ring that one of them bore, and 
said, ” Are you wise to wear that ? ” 

M. de Kersaint looked down at the crest cut in the emer- 
ald. ” I have always worn it — without reflecting, I suppose 
— ^when I gave up everything else. One is inconsistent, 
no doubt. I never use it, of course.” 

” But anybody — anybody interested — can make out 
what the device is, though oddly enough it never struck 
me till last night when your hand was on the table and the 
candlelight fell on it.” 

” It means nothing to him probably.” 

” I am not so sure of that,” said the priest, releasing the 
hand. 

The Marquis slipped off the ring. ” Very well. I will 
give up wearing it then. — ^Though, indeed, I might use it 
to support my claim of being akin . . . not that I am 
Hkely to wish to do that again ! ” 

” Your kinship is by marriage, remember. You would 
never use the same arms. And, Gaston, having once 
declared yourself a kinsman of the Due de Trelan’s you will 
have to keep it up, in order to get at the money.” 

The Marquis, putting the ring in his pocket, frowned at 
this obvious truth. 

” I suppose I shall. Let us think about this business 
then, before de Brencourt comes back, as he may do any 


TU MARCELLUS ERIS 


55 


moment. Now, am I to take on myself to give permission 
for the further rifling of my " kinsman's ' property, or shall 
I go through the farce of writing him a letter ? 

If you do that, a certain time must be allowed to 
elapse before you could . . . receive a reply.'* 

Precisely," said the Marquis de Kersaint. In spite 
of everything a gleam of rather grim amusement flitted 
over his face. " And I need not point out to you that the 
money would be like manna from heaven at this moment. 
So large a sum, absolutely at one’s own disposal — why, one 
might organise and arm Finistere almost as well as Cadoudal 
is arming the Morbihan. There is no time to lose, for, as 
it is, when we get possession of the treasure — if we ever do 
— ^it wiU be useless in its present state — coin of the time 
of Louis XIII. and Henri IV. It would have to go to 
England. Bertin would see to that, of course." 

The Abbe nodded. "But Bertin is not the man to get 
it out of Mirabel. What staff, if any, do you suppose the 
Directory maintains in the place ? " 

Mirabel’s owner shook his head. " I have no idea. I 
only know that it is a museum, which implies a guardian of 
some sort. I had rather for our purposes that it was 
empty and falling into ruins. Make a note, Pierre, to 
write to Bertin or someone to find out the dispositions 
there." 

The Abbe nodded again. " I imagine, then, that you 
will not write the letter to M. de Trelan — you will take the 
responsibility on your own shoulders, as you hinted at 
doing last night." 

" Yes," said M. de Kersaint, leaning back in his chair. 
" And I shall probably go to Mirabel myself." 

The priest jumped. " Gaston, that would be mad- 
ness ! " 

" Why ? " 

" Why ? You know that as well as I. It is a great risk 
for anyone to run, and for a general himself to incur a 
hazard which he should assign to a subordinate is not 
only folly, but culpable folly. What would happen to all 
the plans for Finistere if you got laid by the heels ? And 
think of the self-betrayal ! Could you wonder if those 
quick-witted young men of yours, if M. de Brencourt, if 
all who got to know of it asked themselves why you did 


56 THE YELLOW POPPY 

such an extraordinary thing as to go on this quest in 
person ? 

M. de Kersaint looked at him musingly. ** You have 
a terrible habit of being in the right, mon frere. I believe 
you want to go yourself ! ” 

“ Well, I think I should not do amiss, though I do not 
know Mirabel.** 

** I wonder if you know what a good opinion of yourself 
you have ! ** said the Marquis, smiling. No — though I 
dislike sending him there — I think that de Brencourt is the 
man to go.** 

Has he ever been there, do you think ? ** asked the 
priest, hesitating a httle. 

The Marquis looked away. ** No, I should doubt it,*’ 
he said after a moment. ** I shall have to ask him, I 
suppose. But here is my ancestor’s plan, and naturally 
I can give him sill necessary details.” 

“You must be careful how you do that — remember that 
you are only a distant kinsman.” 

“ I am not likely to forget it,** retorted the Marquis. 
“ I would far rather not, but I think I must send the 
Comte. He is the man I should naturally have sent.” 

“ Roland de C^ligny was dying to go, was he not ? ** 

“ Harebrained boy, yes ! But I told him and La Vergne 
that I would have none of it. It is no work for children. 
He will be safely out of the way with his grandfather tiU 
I send for him again — though to be sure I should have 
preferred to keep him with me.” 

“ I hope his grandfather will be grateful to you for your 
self-denid.** 

“ Highly improbable, I should think,” observed the 
Marquis sardonically. “ I can do no good thing in that 
quarter.** 

“ I can understand that it is not work for Roland,** 
pursued the priest meditatively, “ but, as far as risk goes, 
he ran enough of that with us at la Croix-Fendue the day 
before yesterday.** 

“ Of a soldier’s death, perhaps, but not of any other. 
Not thai again, please God ! ** A look of bilter regret 
passed over his face. “ O Pierre,” he said in a low voice, 
“ if only that boy had been bom ... at Mirabel ! ” 

“ Yes, yes 1 ” assented the priest sadly. Things might 


TU MARCELLUS ERIS 


57 

indeed have been otherwise if Mirabel had not in its last 
days been a childless house. 

When I see his grandfather again ** the Marquis 

was beginning — and was cut short by the sound of steps 
on the stairs. In an instant he was the man who had 
entered the attic yesterday evening, not the man who for 
the last three-quarters of an hour had been talking without 
reserve to his only intimate. 

De Brencourt — and Georges/* he said, and rising, stood 
waiting to receive the most notable of all the Royalist 
leaders, and that a peasant. In another moment the latter 
stood on the threshold, a massive Breton of about thirty, 
bull-necked, wide-shouldered, with short and very closely 
curling reddish hair. 

The Marquis went forward and held out his hand. 
** Monsieur Cadoudal, I am honoured to meet the bravest of 
the brave.** 

The Chouan*s great grip engulfed the strong, slender 
fingers. “ And I in my turn,** he said, with a natural 
dignity, salute the hero of l^voli. You bear a Breton 
name. Monsieur le Marquis.** 

** I have — or had — property in Brittany,** replied M. de 
Kersaint, hesitating for a moment, but I am not a Breton.** 

Georges Cadoudal was Breton — to the backbone — 
and in the discussion which followed Pierre Chassin had 
leisure to realise the force and unswervingness of his 
countryman*s personality, his warlike and (on a small 
scale) his administrative genius, and his justness of political 
outlook. For he knew perfectly well that as long ago as 
last summer, when Cadoudal had come back from his 
refuge in England to reorganise the Morbihan, he had 
urged the Bourbons to immediate action, pointing out 
that Hoche was no more, Bonaparte shut up (as he still 
was) with his best troops in Egypt, and the Republican 
armies being drawn off to the frontiers to face other foes. 
It was the hour to seize. But the advisers of the King and 
of his brother the Comte d’ Artois, who was more particu- 
larly concerned with the affairs of the west, were, as usual, 
swayed by the evil genius which always seemed to haunt 
their counsels, and did nothing. Against that ineptitude 
Cadoudal, hke all the Royalist leaders, past and present, 
had continually to struggle— as if there were not enough 


58 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


difficulties and more than enough dangers, without instruc- 
tions from overseas that were always either futile or too 
late. If only, thought the Abbe, they do not trip Gaston's 
feet in the future ... He watched him now, listening to 
Cadoudal’s explanation of his system of “ legions " in the 
Morbihan and in Loire-Inferieure, and how he had brought 
it about. 

But Finistere, Monsieur le Marquis," finished the 
Breton, looking at the keen patrician face opposite him, 
“ will be a much more difficult matter, because it is almost 
fresh ground. And you will find there many fewer arms 
stored away than is the case in my command, where we 
have been fighting on and off for six years." 

" I know it," returned Finistere’s destined leader gravely. 
" I know I have a very hard task before me. But I have 
just received good news. Monsieur Cadoudal. I may be able 
to supply a good proportion of the necessary arms myself. 
There is something equivalent to 12,000 louis awaiting me 
in a kinsman’s chateau if I can secure it. As to organisa- 
tion, here is my scheme, if you will be good enough to 
glance at it. Though I can never look to have a force like 
yours, I should hope in the event of hostilities to be able 
to support your rear — though indeed that would by no 
means counterbalance the immense benefit to me of 
having you as a bulwark in front of me. Against the tide 
of attack we of Finistere should at best be only a few 
pebbles — ^behind a rock." 

" At any rate. Monsieur le Marquis," said " Georges,' 
gazing at him hard out of his deepset eyes, " I can tell, 
without even looking at your scheme, that I should not 
have sand behind me 1 " 

An hour later Cadoudal, escorted by M. de Brencourt, 
having departed as secretly as he had come, M. de Ker- 
saint stood collecting the papers strewn on the table. " I 
should have been happy to serve under that man, instead 
of being his colleague," he said musingly. Then he went 
and looked out through the attic window at the remains 
of the mediaeval fortifications of Hennebont, with their 
memories of the indomitable spirit which had once defended 
them, housing in the breast of the Comtesse Jeanne de 
Montfort. 


TU MARCELLUS ERIS 59 

'' Pierre/' he said suddenly, before we leave I have a 
fancy that I should like to see the giver of this strange and 
belated wedding gift of mine. Would it be possible, 
think you ? " 

I do not suppose the niece would object, if you give 
me leave to concoct some reason for the request,” replied 
the Abbe. 

The Marquis gave a sort of smile. ” You can say what 
you like. I am afraid you must be getting inured to 
deception on my behalf. At any rate I cannot betray 
myself to Mile Magny now.” 

No, one cannot betray oneself to the dead. And yet, 
who knows ? . . . Perhaps the old lady’s spirit, still 
hovering round the habitation it had so recently quitted, 
could realise and be glad that her offering had thus quickly 
found its goal. But candles burnt now at the head and 
feet of that empty dwelling, and the face looked austere, 
and remote from those old desires and admirations. M. 
de Kersaint took the holy-water sprinkler which the priest 
handed to him, and shook a few drops on the dead servitress 
of his house. 

” Yes, I remember her,” he said in a low voice. ” My 
mother always thought so highly of her ... I wish now 
that I had seen her alive, for I should like to have thanked 
her for this great gift of hers, with its possibilities for 
France. Could she have chosen a better time to make 
it ? ” 

He stooped over the bed, and, reverently lifting one of 
the old hands folded over the crucifix, put a kiss on its 
icy, shrivelled surface, while the priest gazed at him, full 
of sorrowful thoughts. Eight-and-twenty years ago, 
when those closed eyes had looked on him in his spring- 
time, what might he not have become ? Lucien, who 
had been struck by it, had told him how M. de Kersaint 
had objected to last night’s use of the TuMarcellus eris, 
and the sad and lovely lines rushed into the priest’s mind 
anew. Yes, more poignant than the lament for youth 
cut off and blighted promise, was that for youth spent 
to no end and promise wasted. Tu Marcellus eris / At 
twenty- three he might have been ... at fifty- one ? . . . 

For what the man who stood there with him by the dead 
had since done to redeem the light and sterile past he 


6o 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


could not claim in his own name, and she — ^the bride of 
Mile Magny's memories — to whom this late justification 
of her faith in him would have been fife’s supremest happi- 
ness, was no longer on earth to see it. 

Truly, as the great Latin knew, there was a bitter sense 
of tears in human things. 


BOOK II 

MIRABEL 


•• And so, cold, courteous, a mere gentleman. 

He bowed, we paxted. 

Parted. Face no more. 

Voice no more, love no more 1 wiped wholly out 
Like some ill scholar’s scrawl from heart and slate,— 
Aye, spit on and so wiped out utterly 
By some coarse scholar ! I have been too coarse, 

Too human. Have we business, in our rank. 

With blood i’ the veins ? I will have henceforth none j 
Not even to keep the colour at my lip." 


Aurora Leigh, 


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CHAPTER I 

M. THIBAULT IN CONVERSATION 

In spite of the bare six miles which separated it from Paris, 
in spite of its position only a little off the high-road there- 
from to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, a ^eat peace reigned this 
afternoon over the hamlet of Mirabel-le-Ch^teau, those 
few dwellings which had grown up, for its convenience or 
by its favour, round the vast oblong mass of the Renaissance 
palace from which they took their name. It was the 
light, warm peace of early April sunshine, of occasionally 
rising April dust, and of trees all brightly and freshly 
arrayed, but, whatever its ingredients, it was a tranquillity 
entirely unappreciated by the one human being in sight of 
Mirabel, the sentry in his box outside that deserted palace. 
He was so bored with being sentry there ! 

Years ago, in the bad old days, as he was accustomed 
to regard them, if he had been in Mirabel-le-ChSteau at all 
— which was improbable, for he was a Parisian — the village 
would not have been so deathly quiet, for, vassal though 
it were of the great house which it was now his untoward 
lot to guard, it beat at least with the life radiating to it 
from that centre and reason of its being. But if all the 
remaining inhabitants of Mirabel-le-Ch^teau could boast, 
in theory, of a glorious liberty, of bowing the knee no more 
to M. le Due de Troian, nor even to the King of France 
— ^but only to France’s five kinglets, the Directors, to 
the military authorities who bled them by incessant con- 
scription, and, in a measure, to that member of the Conseil 
des Anciens who had charge of the chateau, Georges Camain 
— they certainly could not congratulate themselves on the 
possession of overmuch gaiety or even of bread. In those 
same bad old days the tyrannical owners of Mirabel had 
given them work, or bread, or both ; no one to-day gave 
them either, for there was none to give. Besides, there were 
not now many inhabitants left in the hamlet to receive. 

63 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


64 

The village boys who, as boys will, had cheered on the 
Paris mob which sacked Mirabel in the summer of 1792 
lay, many of them, as quiet as the bodies round which they 
had unthinkingly danced — corpses themselves in the blood- 
stained soil of Flanders or Switzerland or Italy or Syria. 
Those who lived were far away. In Mirabel-le-Ch&teau 
now only the old and the women remained. 

Certainly, in the bad old days, Mirabel-le-ChSteau had 
been a more cheerful and a more populous village; but 
then it had not been free. Certainly, in that time of 
oppression, such of its inhabitants as were so minded could 
flock on Sundays at the sound of the bell to the little 
church and hear the white-haired cure say Mass and 
admonish them — two proceedings which some of them 
found, strangely enough, to be of assistance in their daily 
lives. Now that old man was slowly dying, a deportee 
in the swamps of Cayenne, there was no one to say Mass, 
and even the beU, the symbol of a cult, might on no account 
be rung. Yet every tenth day these freed citizens were 
all but hounded into the bare and desecrated church to 
hear a discourse on patriotism or the social virtues. But 
were they not delivered from the imbecile liturgy of the 
priesthood ” and all the superstitions of Catholicism ? 
Was not Sunday replaced by the more enlightened if pene- 
tratingly dull Decai ? And whereas, in the bad old days, 
the master of Mirabel had all but owned them, now* on 
the contrary they, or at least the French nation, claimed 
to own Mirabel. It was true that singularly little benefit 
had accrued to them from the change. 

And thus the village of Mirabel-le-Chfiteau was less than 
half animate, and the sentry from the guard-house opposite 
the Temple of Reason (formerly the church) had to bear 
his dreadful affliction of ennui unsolaced. Only a wooden 
barrier and some acres of gravel separated him from the 
chateau behind him, for the great wrought iron gates, of 
the finest Italian workmanship, had been destroyed when 
the present proprietors entered so tempestuously on their 
new acquisition seven years ago. These gates had been 
very economically replaced, all the time that the deceased 
Convention was in power, by a cord bearing a knot of 
tricolour ribbon and the legend, ** Defense d’entrer," 
written on a card in violet ink that had run and paled 


M. THIBAULT IN CONVERSATION 65 

with the rain. But now, under the Directory, a neat 
wooden barrier spanned the wide space between the stone 
gateposts with their mutilated shields and lions, a barrier 
bearing a painted notice which, headed “ Ci-devant 
chateau de Mirabel, Bien National,'' went on to state that 
since the Government intended eventually to turn the 
chateau into a museum of art treasures, citizens were 
already at liberty to visit it twice in the “ d^ade," on 
payment of a fee. Practically nothing, as yet, had really 
been done towards the formation of the proposed museum, 
and if the Directory, always pressed for money, depended 
for this consummation on the payments of visitors it 
could have amassed very little towards that object. Mean- 
while it had locked up such of the rooms as had not been 
entirely stripped of pictures and furniture, installed a 
female concierge with power to summon relays of femmes 
de journee to her aid, and kept what seemed to be a rather 
unnecessary sentry till nightfall at the entrance. 

And this sentry, fixed bayonet and all, lounged to-day 
in his box as though he had never known the meaning of 
drill, as though he were not a National Guard from what 
had been one of the most turbulent sections of Paris. 
He sighed as he sat there, his musket between his knees, 
he fidgeted with his white cross-belts, he drummed with 
his heels ; a member of a free people felt himself very 
much in bondage this afternoon. He would not be re- 
lieved till another hour and a quarter had dragged by. 
For a few minutes’ conversation with some human being 
of whatever station, sex, or age, he would have given 
almost anything that he could think of. But the village, 
round the comer to his right, seemed uninhabited as well 
as invisible ; even the cabaret on his other hand, between 
him and the high-road at right angles some half-mile away, 
might as well have been shut, for all the company it was 
receiving or emitting. Though he could not betake 
himself thither, sheer boredom was making the Citizen 
Gr^goire Thibault altruistic. To see anybody go in, 
even. . . . And it was in looking dejectedly along the 
poplar-bordered road to the Cafe du Musee that he became 
aw^e of a cloud of dust settling down in the distance. 

A little interest sprang into his veiled eye ; he leant 
forward out of his box and spat upon the ground with a 

E 


66 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


return of vigour. That dust must betoken the passing of 
the dihgence from Paris to Saint-Germain. Now, had it set 
down any one for Mirabel-le-ChSteau ? Very improbable ; 
but if it had the traveller would be obliged to pass him to 
get to the hamlet. . . . There was nobody, of course, 
and, as to talk, only the conversation of the poplars with 
the breeze. “ Oh, sacre metier ! groaned the Citizen 
Gregoire, and took out his pipe as a last resource. There 
was no one to report him to the sergeant. 

He pushed down the coarse tobacco by means of a hand- 
some gold and bloodstone seal with a coat of arms, loot 
from the great piUage, which he had bought last year for 
ten sous on the Quai de la Megisserie, began to feel for his 
tinderbox, and stopped. The diligence had set down a 
passenger after all ! 

Down the sunht road under the poplars was advancing 
the figure of a woman, carrying a little covered basket in 
her hand. By her gait she was young. So much the better. 
Thibault rose to his feet ; it seemed too good to be true. 

It must be conceded that, as the godsend came nearer, 
he suffered a measure of disappointment. The woman 
was not young — but neither was she old. She was walking 
rather slowly, with her eyes on the ground, but when she 
was quite near she lifted them and looked at him, and 
M. Thibault perceived that she was about to stop of her 
own accord. 

“ Good-day, la femme ! " 

Good-day, citizen sentry,” she returned. ” This is 
the only entrance to the chateau, is it not ? ” 

Her voice was very sweet — though indeed any voice 
would have fallen like music on the ears of Gregoire just 
then. The eyes which she raised to him were noticeably 
well-set ; under her decent black bonnet he saw fair hair 
turning grey. She was tall and generously made ; he took 
her to be about forty-five. Then her little covered basket 
and her air of having business there suddenly recalled to 
him a fact he had totally forgotten. 

” Name of a pipe ! ” exclaimed he, slapping his musket. 
** Is it possible, citoyenne, that you are the new concierge ? ” 

The woman nodded. ” Yes, citizen sentry. I was 
instructed to come this afternoon. My baggage, a small 
trunk, should have arrived already.” 


M. THIBAULT IN CONVERSATION 67 

I don’t believe it has/’ said M. Gregoire Thibault 
musingly, and he rubbed a rather bristly chin. If I had 
seen anything of it, I shouldn’t have forgotten that you 
were coming. But perhaps it arrived this morning before 
I was on duty.” He appeared to be ruminating on this 
possibility, but in reality he was thinking to himself, 
” She has been a fine woman, that, once ! ” Aloud, he said, 
” I knew, of course, that Mere Prevost was giving up her 
job, but I had forgotten that she was to leave to-day. Her 
man has come back from the wars, I believe, short of an 
arm. And so you are the new caretaker, citoyenne ? ” 
He took another look at her. ” Le diable m’emporte,” 
he thought this time, ” if she is not a fine woman still ! ” 
Resting his musket against the sentry-box he went slowly, 
fishing out a key, to the movable portion of the barrier. 
But having got there, instead of unfastening the padlock 
he turned round again, leaning against the bar. 

” I’m sure I hope you’ll like this business, citoyenne,” 
he began conversationally. ” Pretty dreary, I take it, 
living alone in that great house there, full of nothing but 
memories of the time of the Tyrant, and of the bloodshed 
the day the people took it. If one believed in ghosts, 
now ” 

” You don’t believe in them, evidently. Citizen ? ” 

” I hope I am a better patriot,” responded the National 
Guard with dignity. ” Ghosts, the so-called saints, prayers 
for the dead, the Repubhc has done away with all that 
nonsense.” 

“Yes, there has been a good deal done away with these 
last ten years.” The tone of this remark a little puzzled 
Gregoire, but he continued nevertheless, “ Still, I must 
confess that Decadi doesn’t often see me at the Temple, 
unless there’s a wedding. It’s just a little wearisome. . . . 
But my wife in Paris goes to the Temple of Genius regularly 
— the late edifice Roch, as you know — and says she likes 
it, especially since they have instituted recitations by the 
children, and our youngest took a prize. But what were 
we speaking of ? — ah, the chateau. Well, if I were not a 
good patriot, and disbelieved in saints and angels and all 
that rubbish, I might be tempted to think that the ci- 
devant Duchesse walked there o’ nights without her head, 
or maybe with it, looking in her silks and satins as she 


68 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


did before they stuck it on a pike, for I have heard that she 
was a famous beauty/' 

Yes, I have heard that," said the newcomer with a 
shade of impatience. " But I have also heard that it is 
incorrect," she added. 

" Well, beauty or not, it was all the same to her, poor 
wretch, when she came out of La Force that day," observed 
Gr^oire, comfortably leaning back on his elbows on the 
barrier. And having thus dismissed the subject he went 
on, " The ci-devant Due now, — supposed to be alive, he 
is. So you won't meet him walking there. Instead of 
Monseigneur we have M. le Depute Camain ; he often 
comes, and sometimes the Citoyenne Dufour, who used to 
be at the Opera, with him. She acts at the Ambigu-Comique 
now. They say he's going to marry her. Curious world, 
isn’t it, Citoyenne ? Think, if the Due and Duchesse 
could see Mirabel now ! " He laughed. 

The new caretaker drew her shawl round her as if the 

April breeze caught her. " I think I had better " she 

b^an, making a fresh move towards the barrier. And 
then she said abruptly, "You spoke just now of the Due. 
Has anything been heard — ^here in Mirabel-le-Ch§teau, I 
mean — about him ? " 

M. Gr^oire shook a waggish finger at her. " No, no, 
nothing more is known about him. And take care, 
citoyenne concierge I " he added grinning. " It doesn't do, 
since Fructidor, to be too much interested in aristocrats 
as high up as that, especially when they are still 4migr^. 
But I believe from what I have heard, that Monseigneur 
le Due could turn any woman's head. I don't suppose, 
however, that you ever saw him, did you ? " 

" I am from the provinces," was the new concierge's 
reply. " I only came to Paris after the tenth of August." 

" Ah, you missed something ! " said the National Guard 
regretfully. " I wasn't at the storming of the Tuileries, 
but I saw the place afterwards. And this nest of ci- 
devants, as I daresay you've heard, was rushed two days 
later, by patriots from Paris. Not so much fighting, of 
course, as in the Place du Carrousel, since there were no 
troops here, but they barricaded the place as well as they 
could, and the Duchesse's maitre d'hdtel was killed outside 
her boudoir, and two or three servants on the stairs and 


M. THIBAULT IN CONVERSATION 69 

so on. Then the house was pretty well looted ; I've heard 
the citizen Camain regret that." 

The concierge looked away from him at the great facade. 
" And how was it that the Due escaped ? " she asked. 

" How did he escape 1 He did not need to escape ! " 
retorted the sentry. " He wasn’t there. He had emigrated 
long before that. That’s what saved him.’’ 

" But he could not know, long before, what was going 
to happen in 1792,’’ said the woman, almost as if she were 
defending M. de Trelan. 

" Maybe not,’’ returned the National Guard indifferently. 
" All I know is that he wasn’t here. But she was — -the 
ci-devant Duchesse — and that was the end of her, after 
a few days of La Force. Myself, I don’t approve of 
murdering prisoners, especially those of the sex, though 
the woman Lamballe, being such a friend of the fem^e 
Capet — as we used to call her before Thermidor — doubtless 
deserved what she got. But as for this Duchesse, I have 
heard that she was always kind to the poor, here and else- 
where. But what would you have ? Mistakes happen.’’ 

" Yes,’’ agreed the concierge, looking at him. " But, 
no doubt, she is well out of this world. It is not too merry 
a one. Citizen, even, perhaps, for a Duchesse.’’ 

M. Thibault, who was in reality a sympathetic soul, 
and by no means the blood-boltered patriot he liked to 
paint himself at times, said to this, "You have known 
trouble, Citoyenne ? ’’ 

" I have known what it is to lose my husband, my home, 
and every penny I had. But I am not faint-hearted ; do 
not think that ! One goes on to the end, does one not, 
citizen sentry — till the relief ? ’’ 

" Sacre tonnerre, yes ! ’’ asseverated the citizen sentry, 
struck. "I see you are a good-plucked one, Madame. 
Well, I shall like to think of you behind me in the chateau 
there, and if ever there’s anything you want doing for 
you, I’m your man. Gregoire Thibault is my name." 

The new concierge thanked him with a smile which 
caused a sensible warmth to flow over the Citizen Gregoire, 
and made him regret still more that he could not decently 
keep her waiting any longer. He fitted the key slowly 
into the lock, saying, " You’ve got your warrant with 
you, I suppose, Madame ? " 


70 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


The woman held it out at once — an official document 
duly stamped and sealed, appointing the widow Vidal, 
sempstress, of the Rue de Seine, concierge of the ci-devant 
chateau of Mirabel, in room of the woman Prevost, resigning 
that charge. The document was signed by the Deputy 
Camain, the administrator of Mirabel, and countersigned 
by one of the five Directors, Larevelliere-Lepeaux. 

‘ Vidal,’ ” murmured the sentry, studying it. “ Par- 
faitement.’' He returned the paper and at last unfast- 
ened the barrier. “ Do you see those two bits of 
balustrading, Madame Vidal, on either hand of the great 
steps ? When you get there you will find that there is a 
stairway the other side of them, going down to the base- 
ment storey. The left-hand one has ‘ Concierge ’ on it. 
You go down there. Mme Prevost will probably be on 
the look-out for you. Good-luck to you, Citoyenne ! ” 

She bent her head again with that smile which had 
charmed him. 

“ Thank you. Citizen. I think I shall find my way. . . . 
Ah, there is one thing I forgot. I have lived in Paris for 
some years with my niece Mme Tessier, and it is probable 
that she may come to see me soon — that she will come 
regularly, in fact. She will have a pass from M. Camain 
himself. I suppose therefore that there will be no diffi- 
culty ? ” 

“ No, that will be all right. No need to bother about 
that,” replied M. Thibault heartily. 

And Mme Vidal passed through the barrier. As she 
did so she not unnaturally glanced up at the broken stone 
lion on one of the gateposts which still held between its 
paws the defaced shield of the Dues de Trelan. The man, 
who saw the movement, made a gesture of half-tolerant 
contempt. 

” Those watchdogs won’t bark at you now — nor at 
any one!” he remarked. But Mme Vidal seemed not to 
have heard him ; nor did he, on his side, observe that she 
had caught her underlip between her teeth like one in 
sudden pain. Then she began to walk steadily towards 
the great house. 


CHAPTER II 

LE PALAIS DE FAIENCE 

A TRIFLE of agitation might easily have been excused in 
any prospective caretaker confronted for the first time by 
the chateau of Mirabel. Since there was, on this side of 
it, no half-concealing avenue, nor, indeed, trees of any 
kind whatever, but only the prone skeletons of what had 
been a series of formal gardens, the whole towering extent 
of the facade broke in one oppressive moment upon eye 
and brain. And that, no doubt, was why Mme Vidal, 
walking at first with fair speed towards it over the wide 
gravel approach, suddenly came to a standstill, and, grip- 
ping tightly the handle of her basket, stood hke a statue, 
gazing, across its forlorn parterres, at the overpowering 
bulk of her new home. 

Forty-two years had gone to the making of Mirabel. 
Begun in 1528 for Francois I., at the same time as that other 
palace of Fontainebleau, it had risen under the eyes of 
successive Royal architects, de TOrme and Primaticcio, 
till it became the great chateau reckoned, in that day of 
the French Renaissance, so wonderful a novelty — a resi- 
dence not built round courtyards one or many, but con- 
structed in a sohd mass, a parallelogram of great length 
and height, whereof the north side exactly reproduced 
the south and the east the west. And Girolamo della 
Robbia, brought from Italy, had ornamented it in every 
part with details of many-coloured majolica. 

So it stood, this great pile, before the eyes of Mme 
Vidal — its five-storeyed facade cut, as it were, into three 
portions by the two square-faced towers which ran up it, 
and which were repeated, something larger and more 
aspiring, at the corners. Along both of the two lower 
storeys, making a sort of colonnade or loggia in front of 
the tall windows, went richly decorated arcading, fifteen 
bays of it, lofty and round-arched. Interrupted by similar 

71 


72 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


towers at intervals the colonnading ran, in fact, round the 
entire building. But the five bays of the central portion 
were more deeply recessed than the others, for at their 
pillar bases stretched, from tower to tower, twelve im- 
mensely long, wide and shallow steps. Save for the 
absence of these steps and of the great entrance door to 
which they led — and for a difference, also, in the frieze 
over the arches — ^the second storey exactly reproduced 
the first. But the third and fourth gained a measure of 
variety from the absence of the colonnading ; though 
on the third there was still an uncovered terrace or balcony. 
Here too the windows, no longer so lofty, showed differing 
schemes of ornamentation, the frames of the lower row 
being supported by a sort of winged design, the upper 
accompanied by flat columns. 

Yet, despite these devices to break monotony, it was 
with relief that the eye, travelling upwards over this 
regular assemblage of colonnades and windows, came at 
last to the high-pitched roofs, with their agreeably different 
levels, their dormer windows, and their tall, ornate chimney- 
stacks. The roof of the midmost portion of the chateau, 
between the two central towers, was the lowest ; yet even 
this, after putting forth two great decorated chimneys, 
suddenly soared up at each end into a peak higher even 
than those of the towers. And on either hand of it sprang 
the great pointed pavilion-roofs of the side wings, much 
higher again, and blossoming, they also, into the most 
intricately ornamented chimneys and dormer windows. 

And everywhere there was this astounding many-hued, 
glazed and highly-modelled decoration, lavished in frieze 
and medallion from the richly diapered soffits of the 
arcading on the ground floor to the very crests of the roofs 
themselves. It was true that it did not glitter so brightly 
in the sun of 1799 as in that of 1570, that more than two 
centuries of exposure to northern weather had dimmed — 
not perhaps to its disadvantage — something of the Italian’s 
lustre and colouring, and that the far more destructive 
human agencies of the last seven years had obliterated 
some of his ornaments altogether, yet Mirabel still was a 
palais de faience," still supported the enthusiastic 
testimony of a Renaissance contemporary that its mass was 
fort ^clattante k la veue.” And even if the decoration 


LE PALAIS DE FAIENCE 


73 


were too exuberant, even if the whole building were im" 
posing rather from sheer size than from any other archi- 
tectural virtue, it was undeniably a great house, with a 
majesty and a history of its own, a house that bore out 
the proud motto of its vanished owners, Memini et per- 
maneo — ‘ I remember and I remain.' 

Such was the chateau of Mirabel, built for the first King 
of the Valois- Angouleme branch, whose salamander stiU 
in places adorned it, and given by the last to his favourite, 
C^ar de Saint-Chamans, Marquis de Trelan. Up and down 
those great steps, in the last two hundred years, had gone 
many a prince and warrior and statesman and courtier, 
many a great lady and fair. Mirabel with its colonnades 
and majolica had known much revelry, much wit, much evil ; 
some good deeds, no little patronage of art and letters, now 
and then a liberal charity ; once or twice, in brides of the line, 
some approach to saintliness. And it had sheltered always 
a brilliant courage, a brilliant egoism, an astoundingly 
tenacious self-will, and a pride as great as the Rohans’. 
For these last qualities it had been no unfit setting. 

Now it was ... as it was ; and a poor semptress from 
Paris, whom the warrant of that httle hunchbacked, cross- 
grained Angevin attorney, the Director Larevelliere- 
Lepeaux, had appointed its only tenant, stood in front of 
the blind, shuttered mass and gazed at it. The sun might 
strike on the majolica, but how eyeless looked those great 
lofty windows of the lower storeys, through that empty 
colonnading where no one ever now walked or talked ! 
The glass was gone from some of them. Everything was 
dead, ruined, deserted — a pulseless body. Only, over the 
level central roof, against the clear sky of afternoon, voyaged 
with light heart a feather of an April cloud, and the April 
breeze shook cheerfully the few self-sown flowers that 
flaunted haphazard in what was the mere chart of the formal 
gardens. But Mme Vidal's eyes were on the house, and 
the house only. 

Presently a lively discussion of sparrows took place near 
her on the gravel. The angry cheeping appeared to rouse 
her, and she began to go on again towards the chateau, 
while the victor of the affray, hopping to the basin of a 
sunken fountain, drank delicately of that water with which 
the spring rains, and they alone, had filled it. 


74 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Very soon the new concierge was close enough to the 
house to distinguish plainly the winged beasts, like dragon- 
headed horses, that went in couples, face to face, all along 
the frieze running above the colonnading of the ground 
floor, and the medallions of classical heads that filled the 
spandrils below the frieze, and the Doric entablature of 
the next storey. Walking now Hke an automaton, she 
came nearer and nearer, and stood at last at the foot of 
the great steps, and, looking up, saw, over the blotched 
and discoloured marble, through which the grass was 
pushing triumphant fingers, how the great door, visible 
now through the richly diapered archway, was roughly 
mended and yet more roughly boarded up. It s ill wore 
the scars of that August day seven years ago when, for the 
first time in all its proud history, it had been opened to a 
will that was neither its master’s nor the King’s. At it, 
too, the concierge stood a moment or two gazing, then, as 
she had been directed, she turned to her left hand, and 
began to descend the steps which led from the ground 
level at the foot of the tower towards the basement offices. 
These steps, at the base of either tower, were invisible 
till one was close to the house, since they were screened by 
a line of stone balustrading, but, as the sentry had said, a 
board with a legend and a downward-pointing hand directed 
the feet of the visitor to this subterranean entrance. 
Mirabel had been greatly admired once for the possession 
of this very thing. 

Just as Mme Vidal got to the bottom of the steps the 
door at right angles to them opened, and revealed the 
outgoing caretaker, a dry, thin-lipped woman dressed in 
rusty black, with a fairhaired child of three or four clinging 
to her skirts. 

“ I hope, Madame,” said her successor apologetically, 
” that I have not inconvenienced you ? I fear I am a little 
late ; the diligence was not punctual.” 

” You’re not later than I expected,” replied Mme Prevost 
unemotionally. ” I saw Thibault chattering to you at 
the gate ; I know what he is, so I don’t blame you. From 
the way his tongue goes, it’s a pity he’s not a woman.” 

Without more ado she led the way in, the child’s hand in 
hers, and Mme Vidal followed her along a short passage 
into a smallish living-room, clean, bare, and distinctly 


LE PALAIS DE FAIENCE 


75 


stuffy with an accumulated rather than a recent smell of 
cooking. Facing the door, high up, were two tall windows, 
which came just down to the level of the ground outside, 
itself, naturally, higher than that of the floor. They gave 
sufficient light, but it was not very easy to see out of them, 
for they were heavily barred. In the middle of the room, 
covered with a nightmare of a cloth, stood a round table. 
On the left hand was the stove, with a few shelves and 
appurtenances ; on the right a press, two chairs and 
another door. 

“ Here is the bedroom,'’ said Mme Prevost, opening this 
door, and affording a hasty glimpse of a still smaller room, 
where the chief object to be seen was a short, wide, wooden 
bed, covered with a patchwork quilt of various shades, 
and situated in a recess. 

” You’ll find these rooms quite comfortable,” said the 
woman. ” The Government provides aU necessaries, 
down to pots and pans, as I expect you’ve been told, so 
you’ll have what you want for cooking. And I will come 
again in the morning to show you round the chateau ; 
I can tell you your duties then. I have left you enough 
provisions for your supper and breakfast, in case you did 
not think to bring anything with you. There is a small 
trunk of yours arrived, however ; I put it in the bedroom. 
I suppose you know that people come to see the place 
occasionally, though a good portion of it is shut up ? 
There’s keys — a mort of keys. Look, Madame ! ” She 
unfastened a small door in the wall, and showed them 
reposing in a sort of cupboard. 

” It will take me time to learn all those,” said Mme Vidal, 
resting her hand on the table. She had a look, suddenly 
come upon her, of great fatigue. 

” Oh, they are all labelled,” returned Mme Prevost 
complacently. ” Well, I’ll come and show you in the 
morning, about nine. Yes, ma petite ” — for the child 
was tugging at her skirts — ” we are going to see Papa. 
She harffiy knows what the word means ; born in Germinal 
of the year IV, she was, and he away in Germany with 
General Moreau. ... I hope you wiU find everything 
you want, Madame. I can assure you it’s all clean and 
as it should be.” 

” I am sure it is,” answered Mme Vidal. ” But may I 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


76 

not pay you this evening for the provisions you have been 
kind enough to leave me ? " 

“ Very well, Madame, if you wish,*' replied the other, 
who was gathering together some small possessions. 
“ There's the bread and the cofiee, and a couple of eggs 
— not so easy to come by in these hard days. The milk- 
woman comes at half-past six in the morning.’* Reflecting 
a moment she named a sum, and Mme Vidal, pulling out 
a shabby purse, paid it with reiterated thanks. 

“ But I see that you have left me some wood too,** she 
added. “ Do I not owe you for that also ? ** 

" No, no,** said Mme Prevost, waving away the proposal. 

There's never any lack of wood here, and the Govern- 
ment lets the concierge have it free. It would be hard 
indeed if they were stingy with it, considering that it costs 
them nothing, as it is all off the estate. This lot is parti- 
cularly good, you'll find ; it comes from the pine avenue, 
I fancy." 

Mme Vidal took a step backwards. " They are not 
cutting down the pine avenue, surely ? ** she exclaimed in 
a sharp, sudden voice. 

A great astonishment dawned in the meagre visage 
before her. Why, do you know Mirabel already ! ** she 
asked. ‘‘ I thought — the Citizen Deputy said you came 
from the provinces." 

" So I did — ^so I do," stammered the new concierge. 
" But even in the provinces . . . one had heard of the 
pine avenue at Mirabel. My late husband had seen it in 
his youth." 

" I see," said Mme Prevost slowly. “Well, I will leave 
you to settle in, Madame, for you look tired. I'U come in 
the morning about nine then. The stairway up to the 
ground floor is a little to the left out there ; not that you 
will need to go up before I come. The key of the door I 
let you in at is in the lock ; everybody, visitors and aU, 
comes by that door, and you are not responsible for any 
other ; in fact the rest are nearly all barred up. You had 
better lock that door behind me now. Come along, 
Mariette." 

Almost in eilence Mme Vidal went with her into the 
passage, and when Mme Prevost and the child had passed 
through, and she had responded with a pale smile to the 


LE PALAIS DE FAIENCE 


77 


outgoing concierge’s ** A demain, Madame ! she turned 
the key and pushed the bolt. Then she went back to the 
living-room, and locked that door behind her also. 

Back in Mirabel ! back in Mirabel ! Was it possible ? 
Back in Mirabel — though, to be sure, in a region of it 
that she had never even seen before. Some of the swarm 
of servants had lived here in old times. Had she betrayed 
herself about the avenue ? How foolish, after all these 
years of self-repression ! She looked slowly round. Yes, 
this odd couple of rooms was no doubt some lesser steward’s 
in the past. But, if unfamiliar, it was at least situated 
within the shell of what had been, what still was, Mirabel 
— Mirabel the loved, Mirabel the hated, Mirabel the en- 
chanted palace, Mirabel the purgatory. . . . 

She went suddenly to the cupboard in the wall, and 
putting in her hand drew out the keys. Yes, she was once 
more, in a sense — ^but in what a sense — ^the chatelaine of 
Mirabel. 

And, flinging them back clashing into their seclusion, 
she sat down at the table, buried her face in her hands and 
began to laugh. There was never a laugh more mirthless, 
yet the situation had its humours. At her, indeed, the 

watchdogs ” on the disfigured gateposts, as the sentry 
had termed them, would never even have growled. The 
new concierge of Mirabel's fallen estate had once been the 
mistress of Mirabel’s magnificence, for Mme Vidal the 
caretaker was Valentine de Saint-Chamans, was the 
Duchesse de Trelan in person. 


CHAPTER III 

NINE YEARS — AND BEYOND 
(l) 

The general belief that the Duchesse de Trelan, thrown 
into prison when Mirabel was sacked, had shared the 
terrible fate of the Princesse de Lamballe, though it was 
unfounded, had a large amount of probabihty to justify 
it. Valentine de Saint-Chamans had come very near to 
being cut down by the weapons of the killers in that 
shambles of a street outside La Force on the 3rd of 
September, 1792 — so near it indeed that her entire 
disappearance from that hour was assigned to that cause 
and to no other. 

But she had been saved on the very brink by a man 
almost imknown to her, acting under a stimulus not 
commonly as powerful in this world as it might be — 
gratitude. 

Years and years before the Duchesse de Trelan had 
discovered in Paris, precariously situated, a former steward 
of Mirabel, had pensioned him from her own purse, and had 
continued the pension after his death to his granddaughter, 
Suzon. Suzon in due time wedded one Alcibiade Tessier, 
a young watchmaker with ideas — the Duchesse, who was 
fond of her for her own sake, contributing her dowry. 
After that Valentine lost sight of her protegee, and for 
some years before 1792 she had seen nothing of Mme 
Tessier, so that no one had less idea than she in what good 
stead her own past generosity was to stand her. 

The first intimation of it was the sudden appearance, 
at one o'clock in the afternoon of that third of September, 
in the little courtyard of the prison of La Petite Force 
— ^where only an hour and a half earher Mme de Trelan 
had seen and spoken to the Princesse de Lamballe, now 
gone to her doom — of a man whom she seemed to have 
seen before. This man approached her, looked her in the 

78 


NINE YEARS— AND BEYOND 


79 


face, said with meaning, Do not be afraid ! I shall be 
there ! ” and walked rapidly away again. It was Alcibiade 
Tessier, now an important member of his “ section,” and, 
as such, decorated with a badge of authority commanding 
respect, though meaningless to the Duchesse de Trelan. 

Sure enough, when a little before three o’clock several 
men came to take her before that mock tribunal in the 
adjoining prison of La Force, he was at their head. StiU 
Mme de Trelan had not recognised him, and thought his 
remark merely ferocious irony. But a measure of enlighten- 
ment as to his aim, at any rate, came when she found him 
confidently taking the words out of her mouth, and answer- 
ing for her to those questions that she only half understood. 
It was he who at the end of that rapid interrogatory caught 
her arm and, raising it, said, ” See, she cries ‘ Vive la 
nation ’ ” ; it was he who, on the pronouncement of 
acquittal, went out in front of her through the door of 
death into the swimming Rue des Balais, he who, with some 
more under his orders, hurried her up the length of that 
swirling red gutter into the worse carnage of the Rue St. 
Antoine, and finally he who, when one of the male furies 
there, with dripping sabre, tried to get her to kneel on 
the hiUock of corpses and shreds of corpses to swear fealty 
to the nation, pushed her by, covering her face with his 
hat, asseverating that she was not a friend of the Lamballe, 
and that she had already sworn. 

But it was only when she sank down, half dead, in 
Alcibiade’s little shop in the Rue de Seine that the Duchesse 
de Trelan began fully to reahse the harvest which she was 
reaping. In the Tessiers* attic, where, more or less indis- 
posed, she was hidden for a month, she knew it better still. 
For Suzon had quite decided that her benefactress was 
to instal herself there for the present, until she could 
safely get away, and she and Alcibiade so wrought upon 
Mme de Trelan that in mid-October she openly appeared 
as Suzon’s aunt from the provinces, arriving one evening, 
for the benefit of the neighbours, with a trunk — Suzon’s. 

She was then able to attempt to communicate with 
her emigre husband, and wrote a very guarded letter 
addressed to his last direction in London. Suzon, who 
was anxious for her to join him, contrived to get 
it conveyed somehow across the Channel. Cautiously 


8o 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


as (for the Tessiers’ sake) the letter was worded, it showed 
that Mme de Trdan was waiting for a lead to join the Due 
in England. No answer came. The obvious explanation 
of the silence was that her letter had never reached him. 
That was quite to be expected. After Christmas she wrote 
again ; fresh difficulties of conveyance, fresh uncertainties 
as to its arrival. And again no reply. 

“ The reason is,’* Suzon would say, “ that M. le Due 
is coming himself to take you away. One of these days 
he will turn up in the Rue de Seine, you will see ! '* 

But Valentine knew — ^indeed, hoped — ^that that was out 
of ihe question. In that early spring of 1793, after the 
King’s execution, how could a proscribed noble possibly 
get into Paris without incurring the most terrible risks ? 
She was haunted sometimes by the thought that he had 
come, and had paid the penalty. That thought made her 
hesitate too about fleeing on her own account to England 
— always supposing such a course were possible without 
compromising the Tessiers — for her husband might mean- 
while be searching for her in Paris, since she had not 
dared (again for their sakes) to give her address plainly. 
She would wait a little longer. 

And then, in that April, the bloody thundercloud of the 
Terror broke over France. Ere the first spattering red 
drops had swelled to the stream which was to run so full 
Valentine found herself once more in prison — this time in 
a much obscurer place of detention than La Force. A 
piece of her underclothing, incautiously sent to be washed 
out of the house, was found to bear a compromising mark ; 
the washerwoman denounced this widow from the prov- 
inces who had a coronet on her shift. The marvel was 
that the Tessiers themselves were not included in this 
catastrophe, but they put up such a good defence, Alcibiade’s 
character for patriotism stood so high, and Suzon affirmed 
so stoutly that the garment in question belonged to a 
ci-devai.t in the country whom her aunt had once served 
as maid, that in the end Valentine was imprisoned as a 
suspect merely. And as a suspect she remained in her 
mean captivity for more than a year, unrecognised — for 
there were none of her acquaintance there — and forgotten. 

The Gironde feU, Marat was murdered, the Queen exe- 
cuted, Vendee defeated. The year 1793 dosed ; the next 


NINE YEARS— AND BEYOND 


8t 


began ; Hubert's, then Danton*s head went the way of 
the rest, and at last the long suspense was ended, when on 
a May morning of 1794 the widow Vidal stood before Dumas 
and his assessors in their plumed hats, in that hall of so 
many anguishes in the Palais de Justice, to find acquittal 
on an unforeseen ground. There was no evidence against 
her ; the zealous washerwoman was dead, and even 
Fouquier-Tinville himself, demanding his quota of heads a 
day, was intent on nobler quarry than this country widow. 
Her trial only lasted ten minutes. One was quickly lost 
or saved just then. 

The fishwives on the other side of the barrier acclaimed 
the acquittal, httle guessing whom they were applauding. 
Some of them insisted on accompanying the Duchesse home 
— ^to aU the home she had. Henceforward she was more 
or less sacred. But never, now, while that orgy of blood 
and denunciation lasted, could her real identity be suffered 
to reveal itself, or the Tessiers would be lost indeed. 
Moreover, Mme de Trelan was herself beginning to be 
uncertain of it. And, though her position was improved 
by her official acquittal, the months of prison and priva- 
tion had left their mark on her character in a kind of 
inertia and indifference very foreign to her nature. In 
common with many others in those days of superhuman 
strain, the love of life was running low in her. Existence 
was almost a burden. She was ill, indeed, for months. 
Then at last, in that stifiingly hot and cloudless Thermidor, 
the spell of terror was snapped, and the guillotine came 
back from its ceaseless work in the east of Paris to the 
centre for Maximilien Robespierre himself. 

In the reaction Valentine roused herself to write 
again to her husband, more because she felt she owed it 
to him than because of any great wish to do so, or of any 
hope that he would receive the letter. She did seriously 
contemplate leaving France, or at least leaving Paris, 
but the days went on, and she took no steps. . . It was 
better to think that Gaston was dead. She did think it 
at last. If he were not, she was too proud to make an 
appearance in the world of emigration as a deserted wife. 
And the few family ties she, an only child and early 
orphaned, had possessed were all broken now, by nature 
or violence. She was happy, too, in a sense, with the 

F 


82 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Tessiers, who had risked so much for her, and to whom, 
since Thermidor, her presence was no longer a menace — 
though she was still very careful not to betray herself. 
She began to earn money by embroidery, which she had 
always done exquisitely ; she began, too, to enjoy the new 
sensation of earning. And when in ’97 Alcibiade died 
very suddenly, and his widow, keeping a journeyman to 
attend to the clocks and watches, turned half the shop 
into a lingerie, Mme de Trelan’s skiU helped to support the 
new venture. 

So — unbelievably when she looked back at their added 
months — ^five years, almost, had passed since her release, 
and she was stiU in the Rue de Seine, having reached an 
indifference to outward circumstances which might, on 
the surface, have earned the commendation accorded by 
spiritual direction to “ detachment.'’ Yet this state of 
mind was not in the main the fruit of the astonishing change 
in her fortunes, of captivity and indignities or suspense — 
not even the fruit of her husband’s strange silence. It 
sprang from a tree of older growth than these, though no 
doubt these conditions, and especially the last, had ripened 
it ; it was the lees of a cup more deadening, even, than that 
which the Revolution had set to her lips — the cup which 
she had begun to drink years before, when her heart had 
been slowly starved amid the luxury and state of Mirabel. 

(2) 

The marriage of Gene vie ve-Armande-Marie-Valentine 
de Fondragon with Gaston-Henri-Hippolyte-Gabriel- 
Eleonor de Saint-Chamans, Due de Trelan, had been 
arranged, as often happened, when the bride was a child 
in the convent. But Mile de Fondragon had seen her 
betrothed before the ceremony rather oftener than fell to 
the lot of most highborn young girls in her day, and no 
match, in the end, had been more one of love than hers 
with the singularly attractive young man who came 
sometimes, as was permitted, to the parlour of the great 
aristocratic nunnery of the Panthemont where she was 
being educated. She was seventeen, beautiful and accom- 
plished, when she was wedded with all imaginable pomp 
in the chapel of Mirabel to a bridegroom of twenty-three, 
and began with him an existence out of which custom and 


NINE YEARS— AND BEYOND 


83 

the demands of fashion, rather than anything more menac- 
ing, were so quickly to suck not only the early enchantment, 
but the more lasting affection that might have replaced 
it. For the splendid and handsome young patrician whom 
she had married went his own way in life — and it was not 
hers. 

It was indeed expected of a man of rank in those days 
that he should either keep a mistress or be assigned as 
lover to some married lady of his own world, and that he 
should see only as much of the society of his own wife as 
a certain standard of good usage demanded. After a few 
years of marriage the young Due de Trelan was conforming 
most faithfully to both these requirements. And Valentine, 
formed in that corrupt and pohshed society which grew 
up so early, was even at twenty-one too much of her 
rank and epoch ever to utter reproaches, or even to feel 
very keenly that her husband’s far from unusual conduct 
was reprehensible in itself. Practically the whole of the 
highest society was an amazing chasse-croise of such 
arrangements. But she did feel it in another way, and 
that sharply enough ; for there was a factor not always 
present in like situations — ^she loved her husband passion- 
ately. And so, just as an ordinary woman, she suffered. 

Not that Gaston de Trelan was by any means a profligate. 
He was difficult in his preferences, and she knew well how 
violently — and for the most part unsuccessfully — ^he was 
run after in society. “ Saint-Charmant ” was the current 
play on his name in the salons of the Faubourg St. Germain 
and of the Marais. Nor did he ever fail in attentions to 
her ; nay, as the years went on, she knew that she had 
his respect always ; intermittently, perhaps, almost his 
love. Of the freedom, not to say licence, which a lady 
in her high position could claim, she herself had not taken 
the shadow of an advantage. And yet, though she was 
herself so unsulhed, and though she was also a very proud 
woman, she would have passed over in her husband what 
her world, so far from censuring, almost demanded. As 
youth fell away from both of them she certainly felt it less, 
and the Due’s love affairs, never scandalously frequent, 
became almost negligible. It was not that trait in him 
which had cut the deepest ; it was the gradual conviction 
that the high promise of his character and gifts would 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


84 

never be fulfilled. Her love for him, which had survived 
unfaithfulness, was ambitious, and not without reason. 
More than most of his line Gaston de Trelan had capacity, 
but unluckily there ran in his blood far more than his 
share of the indolent pride of the Saint-Chamans. If he 
could not do a thing supremely well, he would not do it 
at all. Indeed, he appeared to see no reason why he 
should trouble to do anything, in a world where all was 
at his feet, but be uniformly charming, gay, keenwitted — 
and supremely wilful. Like most young nobles he had had a 
military training, and had been given a colonelcy at the 
age of twenty ; but not one second more than the obligatory 
four months of the twelve would he ever spend with his 
regiment. Indeed he resigned the burden of this command 
a few years after marriage. In later life the coveted position 
of First Gentleman of the Bedchamber had been almost 
forced upon him ; fortunately that only entailed a year of 
service. Valentine, a Dame du Palais herself at the time, 
had no love for the long and tiring ceremonial of Court 
attendance, and if only he had accepted the post of am- 
bassador to Sweden which was offered him about the same 
period, or that of governor of Provence for which he was 
proposed, she would have forgiven him had he refused 
the honour at Versailles. But there existed no influence 
strong enough to make him shoulder responsibility against 
his will. 

Yet the slow disillusionment had not killed her love. 
After all, when the crash came in 1790 they were neither 
of them old. And she herself, as she felt bitterly at times, 
had failed to do the one thing which was really demanded 
of her. She had not given her husband an heir — and 
Gaston de Troian was the last of his line. 

It was a shattering blow to a house which dated from 
the eleventh century. The name would be extinguished 
altogether, and the property broken up. Mirabel would 
go to a cousin, the DuC de Savary-Lancosme, who would 
also inherit the great estates in Berry. Saint-Chamans, 
that cradle of the race in the South — ^which for some 
reason Valentine had never liked and rarely visited 
— ^would fall to another branch. So the Due de Troian 
was pitied, as she knew, for what, to a man of his rank, 
possessions and ancient lineage, was indeed a profound 


NINE YEARS— AND BEYOND 


85 

misfortune. Things might indeed have been very different 
if Mirabel had not been a childless house — not in the 
accepted sense that the birth of a son would have 
drawn husband and wife together, for this was doubtful 
— but because the Duchesse de Trelan would not have felt 
always, as the hope of one died, the sense of an irremediable 
shortcoming, and because a certain fatal retort could never 
have been made. 

For her husband’s entire abstention from reproach on 
that score Valentine had always borne him gratitude. 
And indeed no one in the world ever counted up more 
greedily than she his good qualities — his generosity, his 
courage, his strict regard for honour, his contempt of 
anything petty or mean. It was nothing but that undying 
wish of hers to see him openly what he really was w'hich 
led, after the years of partial estrangement, to their final 
rupture, when, in July, 1790, the Due announced his 
intention of emigrating. 

He assumed as a matter of course that his wife would 
accompany him from a France grown, as he said, in- 
supportable. Most people of their rank had already gone, 
for with them it had become practically a principle ; 
M. de Trelan was inclined to blame himself for having 
remained so long. But Valentine did not approve of 
the principle, and said so ; for a man of any weight and 
authority to leave France at this juncture seemed to her 
like deserting one’s country in her hour of need — though 
the opinion was not fashionable. Her husband hstened 
to her, as he always did, with courtesy, but replied that 
by remaining he regarded himself as tacitly countenancing 
the growth of theories and practices, both in politics and 
rehgion, which he most cordially detested. And the 
Duchesse on that had frankly told him that, having for 
so many years refused to take any part in politics, or 
diplomacy, or military affairs or indeed anything, he had 
.hardly the right now to complain of present developments. 
Never before had she been within even measurable distance 
of such plain speech. 

And M. de Trelan, who could never brook criticism, 
was plainly more than annoyed, but he had controlled him- 
self, and recurred more insistently still to the question of 
his wife’s accompanying him into exile. Once more the 


86 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Duchesse had refused, saying finally, when pressed for a 
reason, that she “ did not hke running away.” 

It was true that she had hastily added “ from responsi- 
bihty ” — since she knew, none better, that the last weak- 
ness on earth of which her husband could be accused 
was physical cowardice — ^but it was too late. The Due 
was on his feet, quite white. “ Madame,” he said, ” God 
made you a woman ; you may thank Him for it. Do you 
stay here then, with your responsibilities. They are doubt- 
less great ; and if I do not return ” — ^he took no notice of 
her as she tried to break in — ” if I do not return, you can 
superintend the bestowal of my property on its legal heirs. 
Savary-Lancosme and the rest will have cause, as ever, 
to be grateful to you. I have the honour to wish you 
good-day.” And he walked out of her boudoir. 

She never saw him again. Within an hour he had 
quitted Mirabel for ever, leaving her to reflect, wounded 
to the soul as she was, on those two httle words ” as ever ” 
and what, after all, they revealed. 

But in a few days there came a letter from him begging 
her, not without a certain stiffness, to forgive him for 
what, in the heat of the moment, had passed his lips, and 
offering her, if she had reconsidered her decision, his escort 
to Coblentz, or, if she preferred it, to England. Otherwise, 
for the short absence which he proposed to make, she 
would find that his affairs were sufficiently in order not to 
incommode her, and he prayed her to remain at Mirabel 
or wherever seemed good to her. 

Except for an absence of feehng the letter was perfect, 
but Mme de Trelan knew that it was the letter of a man 
who wishes to set himself right in his own eyes for what 
he considers a lapse from good taste. She thought emigra- 
tion foolish and unpatriotic — the day had not yet come when 
it was the only chance of safety for the wellborn — and 
she could not bring herself to accept an amende prompted 
less by affection for her than by a desire for rehabihtation. 
And if it was to be a short absence, why leave France at 
aU ? Down at her country house in Touraine she was, 
besides, interesting herself in a certain philanthropic 
scheme of her own. So she answered the Due’s letter in 
much the same spirit, asked his pardon also for her hasty 
words — and refused. 


NINE YEARS— AND BEYOND 87 

The Due de Trelan never came back. From Coblentz he 
went to England, and though he and his wife at first kept 
up a desultory correspondence on matters of business, 
for five or six months before the sack of Mirabel she had 
not had a line from him. Intercourse with England was 
by that time becoming uncertain, but she had news of 
him through less direct channels. By all accounts Gaston 
de Trelan was much too popular in English society to 
find time for writing to the wife who so deeply disapproved 
of his having taken refuge there. 


CHAPTER IV 

JADIS 

(l) 

But the strange twist of Fortune’s wheel which, nine years 
after her husband’s departure, had brought the Duchesse 
de Trelan as concierge to her own palace, was first set 
in motion when M. Georges Camain, originally a builder at 
Angers, was returned at the elections of 1795 as Deputy 
for Maine-et-Loire, and, coming up to Paris to take his 
seat, received, after a time, from the Director Larevelliere- 
Lepeaux — ^like him an Angevin and the quasi-pontiff of 
that new and arid creed which M. Camain also professed, 
Theophilanthropism — the charge of Mirabel. For M. 
Camain was a cousin of Suzon Tessier’s, though they had 
not met since Suzon was a child. 

Nor indeed did the Deputy discover Suzon ’s existence 
till the year that Alcibiade Tessier died ; but after that 
he was pretty assiduous in his visits. Valentine sometimes 
wondered if he had a vision of consoling the little widow. 
She herself met him occasionally at meals — a person of 
forty-five or so, large, high-coloured, good-humoured, 
inclined to a florid style in dress and a slightly vulgar 
gallantry. Report said that down at Angers in ’94 he had 
been a Terrorist, but Suzon discreetly refrained from making 
enquiries on that point. Now he seemed so moderate in 
his politics that it wss hard to understand how he had 
escaped being fructidorise with the other moderate and 
Royalist deputies in the coup d’etat of 1797. 

M. Camain found, of course, that Suzon’s aimt ” had 
already lived with her for years, and he was not sufficiently 
conversant with his cousin’s relations by marriage to contest 
any statements which Mme Tessier chose to make about 
her kinswoman’s past history. Even her neighbours in 
the Rue de Seine scarcely remembered now, so fast did 
events move, that Mme Vidal had begim her residence 

88 


JADIS 89 

with the Tessiers at a very significant date in 1792, and 
had passed more than a year in prison since. Besides, 
M. Camain did not frequent any house in the street but 
Suzon’s. 

One afternoon, therefore, in March, 1799, the Deputy, 
dropping in, in his genial way, to his cousin’s Uttle shop, 
said, after some casual conversation, “ By the way, ma 
cousine, how would you Uke to five in a chateau ? ” and 
when Mme Tessier, who was sewing behind the counter, 
replied that she had no such ambition, her kinsman 
admitted that she might find Mirabel lacking in cosiness. 

Mme Tessier’s work left her fingers. “ Mirabel ! ” she 
exclaimed, in a tone not to be described. 

Camain cocked his eyebrow at her. “Yes, Mir-a-bel ! 
The present concierge is leaving, her husband having come 
home discharged from the army, and I always refuse to 
have a married couple there. Do you fancy the job ? ” 

“ God forbid ! " said his cousin fervently. 

“ Of course, I was forgetting your grandfather. His 
ghost would certainly walk to see you installed there as 
the employee of the present regime.” 

“ Mirabel is full of ghosts,” said Mme Tessier, half 
unconsciously, her eyes suddenly fixed. Yes, had the 
Deputy but known, the ghost of ghosts was not even so far 
away as Mirabel. 

As if, startlingly, her cousin had read her thoughts, he 
said, looking from one counter with its array of clocks 
to the other with its piles of Hnen garments, “ No, I suppose 
you would not want to leave this singular union of science 
and . . . er . . . art which you have created. But what 
about that aunt of yours ? She is very badly off, isn't she, 
— and a charge to you, I suspect ? How would it suit 
her ? She would have assistance, you know, for the 
cleaning — she need never touch a brush herself — ^but she 
would have to live in the place, and be responsible for its 
condition. She has always struck me as a notable woman. 
What do you think of that. Cousin Suzon ? You see 
that I am determined to do you a good turn, whether you 
will or no ! ” 

And not all Suzon’s hastily found arguments about 
Mme Vidal's unwillingness and unsuitabihty could turn 
him from his purpose of at least offering her the post. 


90 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Moreover, during the discussion the Deputy unwittingly 
gave vent to a number of doubles entendres, such as 
“ Nothing like keeping Mirabel in the family ! and, 
“ It only wants a woman with a head on her shoulders,'' 
so that by the time his threat to go and interview Mme 
Vidal in person had driven her perforce to undertake the 
office Suzon Tessier was almost hysterical, and went up 
the staircase wringing her hands. Never for one wild 
second did she imagine that the offer would be accepted. 

At first, indeed, Mme de Trelan had seemed to see in it 
an insult thrown at her by Fate — but by Fate’s hand only, 
for Suzon was certain that the Deputy had no suspicion of 
her identity. “ Caretaker of my own house ! ” the Duchesse 
had exclaimed. And then she had begun to laugh, saying 
that it was so preposterous as to be amusing. Yet the next 
moment, to Mme Tessier 's horror, she had exclaimed, 
“ Dear God ! why should I say it is preposterous, now ! 
Tell me, Suzon, what I should have to do as concierge of 
Mirabel ? ” 

And when Suzon, brokenly, had told her, hoping against 
hope that she was only playing with the idea to feed the 
httle vein of ironic humour which she had sometimes 
observed in her, Valentine said gravely, “ Since this 
strange thing has come to me, Suzon, perhaps it is meant, 
for some reason, that I should do it.” 

” Madame, think what you are sa5dng ! '' cried the 
poor Tessier, all her fears back cigain. ” You a concierge ! ” 

” But what am I now, Suzon — a sempstress, almost 
your pensioner.” She said it without bitterness. 

” But at Mirabel — and you its Duchess ! ” 

To that the Duchesse only said calmly, '' I could resign, 
I suppose, when I wished. And you would come to see 
me sometimes, would you not ? I should still have leisure, 
perhaps, to sew for you. ... Yes, Suzon, if your good 
Deputy wants an immediate answer you can give it to 
him. Tell him that — I accept.” 

And as Suzon's horrified protests against this — to her— 
monstrous and sacrilegious compliance were broken into 
by the none too patient benefactor himself tapping on 
the door, Mme de Trelan was able to teU him in person that, 
if he really thought her suitable for the post, she should be 
pleased to take it- 


JADIS 91 

** There ! ” said Georges Camain triumphantly to the 
overwhelmed Suzon. And to her “ aunt ” he announced 
with a bow, “ Madame, one has only to look at you to 
know that Mirabel is fortunate ! ” 

It was in this manner that the Duchesse de Trelan came 
to accept her own, and to pass, some three weeks later, 
into a sort of possession of it. 


(2) 

Now, at eight o'clock the morning after her entry, she 
was already going up the stairway to the ground floor, the 
keys of Mirabel in her hand, for during her night under 
the patchwork quilt she had discovered that there was 
one thing about which she had miscalculated her strength. 
She could not endure to make re-acquaintance with her 
violated home in the company of Mme Prevost. True, 
she would probably be obliged to retrace her steps with 
the ex-concierge when the latter came to instruct her in 
her new duties, but it would be less desecration of her 
pride and of her memories if she revisited Mirabel for the 
first time alone. 

But at the top of the stairs she hesitated. What was 
she going to find ? She knew only too well what desolation 
might greet her. Paris had long been a vast pawnshop 
for the sale of the plundered goods of noble owners exiled 
or murdered. She had but to go into the once aristocratic 
Faubourg St. Germain to see a whole street of empty palaces, 
stripped, many of them, not only of furniture, mirrors and 
balustrades, but even of the very lead from the roofs. 

And outside Paris it was the same. Where were the 
galleries faience pavements of the chateau of Ecouen, 
Mirabel’s contemporary ? And Anet, that palace of love, 
fruit of the same brain as Mirabel, where every door and 
window bore the interlaced monograms of Henri II. and 
Diane de Poitiers ? Of that jewel of stone, set in its 
woods in the valley of the Eure, nothing but its walls 
remained. Its costly canals were rotting mud and rotting 
water, its parks cut down, the kneeling statue of Diane 
in pieces, her mausoleum a horse trough. Chantilly, 
stripped of its marble columns, of its jaspe fleuri, of its 
panels of agate, had become a manufactory, Bellevue, 


92 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


that haunt of the Pompadour, was a barracks ; Marly, 
a field and four walls. 

And Versailles itself ? Versailles was the museum of the 
department. The avenue under whose fourfold ranks 
of elms had passed Turenne and Colbert and Corneille 
existed no longer. In the chapel the very marble itself 
had been spht and hacked to get rid of the encrusted Lilies, 
and the Virgin over the altar stiU held a pike in her hand. 
The beds in the park were covered with brambles and 
weeds, the borders of the Grand Canal were a grazing 
ground for goats and donkeys, the Piece des Suisses was 
muddy, the Naiads were covered with dust. Trianon was 
for sale. The rooms, said Suzon, who had been there, 
smelt damp, like a cellar, and the dining-room was fuU of 
a strange lumber which Valentine recognised from her 
description as the remains of those sledges on which the 
young, laughing Court of 1788 had sped over the ice. . . . 

How should she find her house of Mirabel ? 

The morning sun, at least, knew nothing of change 
of ownership nor of desecration. It came stooping in 
through the outer arcading just as it used to do. In room 
after room, as she went onwards from one to the other, 
it accompanied her, the only habitual thing left in that 
desolation. But, though these rooms were stripped, they 
were not damaged — only, in their aching bareness, very 
strange. 

She came at last to the midmost point of the ground 
floor, the great banqueting hall, or Salle Verte, a vast 
apartment so closely resembling in decoration the Salle 
d'Hercule at Versailles as almost to suggest that it was a 
copy of it. There was the same effect of green relieved 
with gold on a white background, the same green marble 
pillars and heavily gOded cornice. Triumphal deities 
swam across the ceiling, and, just as at Versailles, two 
great pictures, set in elaborately carved frames, formed part 
of the integral scheme of decoration. As Valentine 
entered and looked down the vista of pillars she was 
confronted by the same huge canvas, saw that ^Eneas was 
still toilfully bearing Father Anchises on his shoulders 
from the burning town — the huge canvas which had 
witnessed the dancing on her wedding night and much 
beside. She turned almost unthinkingly to look at the 


93 


JADIS 

companion picture which used to face it at the other 
end of the great room, over the hearth, and was met by a 
large blank space. Dido surveying the Trojan ships, with 
Carthage’s proud towers behind her, was gone. Why ? 
A rude scrawl of Les reines d la lanterne on the blank 
space answered her. Dido was a queen ; iEneas probably 
considered to be the very model of a virtuous and filii 
Republican. The Duchesse smiled ; not a smile of amuse- 
ment. 

One thing the removal of the enormous canvas had 
brought into prominence, and that was the coat of arms 
in relief on the stone hood of the chimney. It was blazoned 
in colour, and gilt to boot ; and though it had been par- 
tially defaced, among so many quarterings there were 
still decipherable enough roses and besants and castles 
and ermine to show the great alliances of the house. And 
at the top the phoenix of the Saint-Chamans still soared 
undefeated from the flames, while below was yet clearly 
to be read their arrogant motto, doubly defiant in this 
pillaged and ownerless dwelling, charged, too, with a double 
irony : Memini et permaneo — ‘ I remember and I remain.’ 
She, who had lived with it for one-and-twenty years and 
knew that it proclaimed even more than that — ‘ I hold out, 
I stay to the end,’ shivered now as she looked at it. 

She turned away at last, and walked half the echoing 
length of that deserted splendour with a steady step. 
Small risk of losing foothold now on that once slippery 
parquet ! 

The room which next she entered had much more of the 
Renaissance about it, designed as it had been as a with- 
drawing-room for Mirabel’s first royal owner. The great 
feature of this apartment — known always as the ** sallette ” 
— ^was the vast chimneypiece, behind which ran a stair- 
case mounting to a kind of tribune or gallery, as in a 
chapel. The tapestry representing the history of St. Louis 
of France, which had clothed the walls of this room since 
the reign of Louis XIII. at least, had never been removed 
till the Revolution, nor the furniture of the same epoch, for 
the “ sallette " had always been something of a curiosity, and 
here the phoenix of the house of Troian had ne\ er replaced 
the crowned salamander of the Roi Chevalier. But now the 
dlace was despoiled alike of the furniture and of the woven 


94 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


story of the royal saint — all but one strip a few feet long, 
whose scorched edges testified to the passage of fire upon 
it. It was part of King Louis* embarkation at Aigues 
Mortes for the Holy Land, and over his armour, as Valentine 
remembered, he had worn a mantle sown with fleur-de-lys 
— indeed, some were stiU visible. . . . 

Mme de Trelan did not spend much longer on the ground 
floor. On the next, whither she now mounted, were 
rooms she had preferred, the Httle Galerie de Diane, for 
instance (large enough in any smaller house) where most 
of the older tapestry used to hang. She supposed it would 
not be there now. But it was : Brussels and Gobelin 
and Mortlake and some old Arras. Yes, there was the 
piece of Arras she had loved as a bride — a little world of 
leaves with its small merry woodland creatures intermin- 
ably roaming and leaping about in it. And there was the 
piece of English tapestry, Soho or Mortlake, of which the 
Duchesse Eleonore had been so fond. Here, too, in a 
sixteenth century piece from the looms of Paris, was the 
deathless bird of the Trelans rising from a perfect sea of 
flames, and surroimded very oddly by a quantity of angels 
and martyrs, the device floating in a wind-bome scroll 
from its beak. Oh, what crowds of memories ! 

Valentine de Trelan passed on. She went through the 
ante-chamber, where the crimson velvet curtains were 
embroidered in twisted columns of silver, and came to the 
jewel of the house, the Galerie de Psyche, for which Mirabel 
was famous. It was indeed a place of stately beauty, 
and she, once its possessor, found herself marvelling at it 
anew, seeing for the first time with a gaze not that of owner- 
ship the perfect harmony between its delicate ornament 
and its splendid proportions, and the charm of Natoire's 
beautiful paintings of the story which gave the place its 
name. 

And the Galerie de Psyche seemed to have been purposely 
preserved as a show-room, for here were gathered together 
some of the best specimens of furniture from other parts 
of the house. The Duchesse recognised, for instance, 
the magnificent Boule escritoire from her husband’s 
private apartments, with its wonderful marquetry of 
tortoiseshell and copper, and a little green vemis-Martin 
cabinet of her own, acquired when vernis-Martin of that 


95 


JADIS 

shade was the rage, and other things. This assemblage 
of objects seemed to her more insulting than spoliation, 
and she stayed for a little by that cabinet of hers. Had 
she been betrayed into an undertaking which, after all, 
she had not strength to carry through ? 

But, having come so far, she would at least go on to 
her own apartments. She did not think of them with 
any special affection ; she had loved more her less magnifi- 
cent rooms in her country house near the Loire. 

She came first to her bedroom. Much earlier in the 
century chamber music must have sounded in this room, 
for all its decorations were trophies of musical instruments, 
lutes and pipes and tambourines knotted together by 
fluttering ribbons. All these were carved ; there was no 
painting here, save the delicate ivory paint which covered 
these and the panelled walls alike. The elaborate bed 
of gilt and inlaid tubpwood was still there, projecting from 
the wall, but stripped of its green silk coverlet fringed with 
gold. This bed stood on three raised steps, outside which, 
as usually in the bed-chambers of the great, ran a gilt 
balustrade. Half of it was still there. So was a large 
armchair of green satin and gilt — but nothing else. 

The Duchesse de Trelan stood outside the broken fence 
and looked at the bed where she had often lain. But it 
seemed certain to her that it was another woman who 
had rested under that canopy — a woman, on the whole, 
unhappier than herself. 

She passed into her cabinet de toilette. This room was 
somewhat famous, for it had been decorated by Huret 
in the second quarter of the century, when “ chinoiseries 
and “ singeries were all the fashion, and on the jonquil- 
coloured paint of its walls, patterned with gold arabesques, 
queer little apes frolicked in a thousand antics, while 
sedate Chinamen walked under umbrellas or fished unend- 
ingly in bamboo-foliaged streams. Save for these, its 
fifty years old occupants, the room was empty. Gone 
was the great toilet table with all its appurtenances where 
the Duchesse de Trelan had been obliged to spend so much 
of her time, had sat so often watching her hair being 
piled up into some elaborate erection d la candeur or d la 
victoire, and listening, half against her will, to the compli- 
ments and small talk of some male visitor. All that was 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


96 

left was the great full-length swinging mirror, mounted by 
Caffieri, with its couple of doves playfully pecking each 
other at the bottom, and its coronet at the top — ^thc mirror 
which had so often reflected the Duchesse de Troian, 
majestic in the spreading, festooned hoop and close-fitting 
square-cut bodice of traditional Court costume, the grande 
robe paree, pearls l3fing in a rope on her white breast and 
pearls across her towering headdress of powder and curls 
and feathers . . . and which now showed Mme Vidal, 
the concierge of Mirabel, in a plain black dress with a rather 
old-fashioned fichu about the shoulders, and above it a 
courageous, sensitive face with a beautifully modelled 
brow, surmounted by masses of fair hair going grey — the 
concierge of Mirabel with the keys in her hand. 

Valentine de Trelan looked at her image a moment 
and then walked to the door. The room opening out of 
this was her boudoir, where she had been sitting on the 
day which had put an end to all this life. Two years 
before that, something else had come to an end there too. 
Here, for the first time, she knew a real hesitation ; but 
after a second or two she fitted the key into the lock and 
entered. 

When, as a bride, Mme de Troian had made the acquaint- 
ance of this room, she had fallen in love with its decorations, 
of the purest style of the Regency, and she had ever after- 
wards refused to have it redecorated — had refused to 
exchange Pineau's shells and arabesques and fantastic 
birds and cornucopias either for the prettinesses of Van 
Spaendonck’s doves and rose-wreaths and forget-me-nots, 
or for the thin Pompeian style of a later fashion. And thus 
the room was very much as it had appeared to her at her 
first sight of it — and at her last. 

For her boudoir with its furniture was quite untouched ; 
its complete preservation seemed almost to argue some 
C5mical purpose. The door giving on to the corridor, which 
had been broken down by the torrent of bodies that had 
poured through it, had been carefully put back in place. 
Perhaps the same care had obhterated the stains on its 
other side, where her maitre d’h6tel had died for her in vain, 
Here were all the chairs and footstools of rose-coloured 
taffeta and silver, and the Boule secretaire that her husband 
had given her, and the commode made for her on her 


JADIS 97 

marriage by Riesener. She had never thought to gaze 
again on those familiar half-blown roses of its beautiful 
inlay, all amaranth and laburnum and tulipwood. 

Her breath seemed to stop ; it all became so real again. 
Just here, where the mirror with its framework of garlanded 
palm-stems still hung on the walls between the windows, 
here she had faced that river of violence and had thought, 
half hoped, to die. She could see now the door crashing 
inwards, the evil and stupid faces, the menacing gestures, 
the bare arms, the eyes alight with the lust of plunder and 
carnage . . . but the cries, the oaths, that spume on the 
tide of invasion, she could hear no longer — not even the 
scream of her murdered servant, which once she had 
fancied would ring in her ears for ever. No ; though she 
could see the catastrophe, it was like a painting, fixed, 
and lacking the vitality of sound and motion — ^more frozen, 
a good deal, than the tapestry in the Galerie de Diane. In 
this room only one voice sounded, where it had sounded 
in her hearing for the last time, and it said only one thing. 
The room was full of it. . . . Very pale, Valentine turned 
from looking at the doorway by which Destiny had entered 
to look at that other, through which all her heart had 
gone out, with Gaston. The scene to which that exit 
had been the close had none of the quality of canvas or 
tapestry ; it was aUve, burning, as vivid as of yesterday. 
How had they ever come to it ? But that she had asked 
herself a thousand times in the years between. And regret 
was so vain and so weak, and tore so terribly. She would 
not often visit this room again. . . . 

As Mme de Trelan locked the door by which she had 
entered, she noticed that even her work-table was still 
here — an oval thing of marquetry and ormulu, poised on 
slender curving legs. Without thinking she opened it, 
to see inside on the gathered brocade of the lining a few 
odd skeins of embroidery silks, a tiny pair of scissors and 
a golden thimble, and wondered whether, since it did not 
seem to have been examined, any one had discovered the 
little false bottom that it had. There was nothing in it, 
she knew ; yet her fingers sought it out. And she was 
mistaken ! There in the recess were a couple of brooches 
and an old locket on a chain — things outworn, ornaments 
of no value which she did not recollect having placed there. 

G 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


98 

The locket bore her maiden monogram in pearls and garnets, 
but it was empty, and she could not even remember what 
it used to hold. She shpped it into her pocket. 

A moment later she was hurrying down the great stair- 
case. A glance at her watch had shown her that Mme 
Prevost was almost due. She did not wish to be found 
up here. Then she remembered that the ex-concierge 
could not get in unless she admitted her. Truly she was 
the chatelaine of Mirabel I 


CHAPTER V 

THE JASPER CUP 

The morning that the Duchesse de Trelan was led through 
the show portions of her own mansion by the former care- 
taker, to be initiated into what she was to point out to 
others, was naturally an initiation into a strange kind of 
discipline as well. Valentine had anticipated this. But 
that first morning's experience was the most painful ; 
afterwards she was to find that to accompany visitors her- 
self was not nearly so trying. To that, she thought, she 
would become almost accustomed in time. 

It was certainly one drop less in the cup of desecration 
that the family portraits were not displayed to the pubUc 
view. Their absence, which had puzzled Mme de Trelan 
at first, had been explained by Mme Prevost. They were 
all hung in a small locked gallery on the second floor, 
together with what was left of the collection of china and 
other objects of rarity, and the Deputy Camain kept the 
key himself. And he won’t so much as let you put your 
nose inside,” had concluded the ex-concierge sourly. ” Often 
have I offered to dust them cups and saucers, and he won’t 
have it. Afraid of their being broken, I suppose — much 
more likely to break them himself with that feather brush 
he keeps in there.” 

” And the family pictures are there too, you say ? ” 
asked Valentine. 

” Every one,” returned Mme Prevost, ” except the last 
Duchess’s, that had a pike stuck through it, and was 
spoilt.” 

But for that pike's activities, of which she was aware, 
Mme de Trelan would scarcely have ventured to ratify 
the assent which she had so precipitately given to Camain’s 
proposal. There was no other portrait of her at Mirabel, 
though she had often been painted. 

99 


100 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


In a week Mme de Troian had settled down to the strange, 
lonely, monotonous life in a manner that amazed herself. 
The days began to follow each other in a regular routine, 
so many in the decade for cleaning, two for visitors. She 
contrived to secure her provisions without ever entering 
the tiny village, lest some of the older inhabitants might 
recognise her, in spite of her altered appearance. Suzon 
Tessier, resigned, yet always anticipatory of iU, had been 
twice to see her. M. Georges Camain had not yet made his 
appearance, but that he would soon do so Suzon had 
warned her. Valentine only trusted that he would not 
bring with him that Mile Dufour mentioned by the sentry, 
of whose intimacy with the Deput/ she had then heard 
for the first time, for there were memories connected with 
the actress which she did not wish revived. 

When the bell jangled, therefore, about three o’clock 
one fine afternoon on a day devoted neither to cleaning 
nor to visitors the Duchesse felt convinced that it an- 
nounced her employer. Sure enough, when she opened 
the door there stood M. Georges Camain, deputy of Maine- 
et-Loire, debonair even in the bottle-green habit with 
mother-of-pearl buttons, cut by Heyl and therefore the 
ne plus ultra of that strange mania which aftlicted the 
fashionables of the Directory for wearing purposely ill- 
fitting coats. Muffled in approved style to his very underlip 
in the voluminous folds of his neckcloth, he swept off his 
hat with a rather exaggerated politeness. 

“ Ah, our new guardian of the Hesperides ! Not that 
I should wish, Madame, to compare you to a dragon ! 
Have I your permission to enter ? '* 

“ You are master here. Monsieur le Depute,” replied 
Mme de Trelan, standing back. She disliked his exuberant 
politeness. 

“ Not I, Madame Vidal,” retorted he, coming in, however, 
with an air of possession somewhat at variance with his 
words. ” I am but the servant of our five kings. Well, 
I hope that Suzon considers you sufficiently comfortable 
here ? She is always so solicitous about her relations 
— except about me ! ” 

The Duchesse, still standing in the passage, assured him 
that she had nothing to complain of. He asked her a 
few more questions ; whether her scrubbers w'ere willing 


lOI 


THE JASPER CUP 

and obedient, whether she found the responsibility too 
much, and finally revealed what he had more particularly 
come for — to look over the collection of porcelain before 
putting it into her charge. And on that he preceded her 
up to the second floor, talking as he went. 

** You observe, Madame Vidal," he said, when at last 
he stopped before a door and fitted the key into the lock, 

** that I preferred the china in here to get dusty rather 
than to give the breaking of it to your predecessor’s 
fingers. But needlework keeps the hands fine, does it 
not ? ’’ — ^he gave as he spoke a glance at hers — " and I 
feel sure that those of yours could be trusted about the 
most fragile porcelain. I shall make over this key to you 
without uneasiness." 

Mme de Trelan followed him into the room with the tiny 
thrill of distaste which any personal remark from him 
always raised in her . . . and was instantly confronted, 
over the glass cases, by the eyes of her husband, looking 
down at her with a smile from his frame on the grey panelling 
of the wall. 

Drouais, the King's painter, had depicted him at three- 
quarter length in the twenty-third year of his age and in a 
primrose satin coat. His left hand rested lightly on his 
hip, just above the silver swordhilt which showed below 
the silk. A signet ring of emerald gleamed on the middle 
finger, and through the guard of the sword was stuck a 
yellow rose. And in the pastel the very assurance of the 
highborn, smiling face beneath the rime of its powdered hair 
was as seductive as the beauty of its lines. If this young 
prince with the rose in his swordhilt possessed so obviously 
everything that life had to offer, who could grudge him 
those gifts ? He would always use them with ease and 
exquisite taste. 

The blood rushed to Mme de Trelan’s heart. She had 
forgotten that the pictures were here. For a moment she 
did not hear what the Deputy was saying . . . Gaston de 
Trelan was not without company on the walls. His father 
was there, and the Cardinal of Ixmis XV. 's days, a mixture 
of sensuality and inscrutability in his lace and scarlet, and 
Antoine de Trelan, the marshal of France under the Roi 
Soleil, greatly bewigged and cuirassed, and Fran9ois de 
Trelan, the mousquetaire, his hand on his sword, and the 


102 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


first owner of Mirabel, Cesar de Trelan, by Clouet, in his 
tilted cap and earrings and little pointed beard. That 
imprisonment was shared by the ladies of the house also, 
and Diane de Trelan in her great ruff hung side by side 
with the kind and saintly-visaged Duchesse Eleonore. 
Only Valentine’s own picture seemed missing. 

She hoped that Camain would make no reference to 
the personages by whom they were surrounded, of whose 
eyes she felt herself so conscious. And he did not, for his 
thoughts were set on the porcelain he had come to see, and 
he went the round with her, taking up with his careful 
plebeian fingers a fragile little two-handled cup out of 
which a queen might have drunk, touching a green Sevres 
dish affectionately, calling her attention to a biscuit group, 
tendering her morsels of elementary ceramic information. 
And she began to see that this self-made, self-educated son 
of a small Angers builder had really learnt something 
about the least durable of all the arts, and seemed to appre- 
ciate the ephemeral lovehness of its productions. 

And thus she went round half the room with him, listen- 
ing to his commendations, and felt her husband’s eyes 
watching her. 

This has a crack, I’m afraid,” said the Deputy ruefully, 
taking up a teapot of yellow Sevres covered with gold spots. 
” Hardly wonderful, when one thinks of the risks they 
have run. Some was smashed that night, I know. The 
People when inflamed wdth zeal is not remarkable for 
discrimination. Now, isn’t that Meissen candlestick 
delicious, Mme Vidal ? ” 

He went on. As was perhaps natural, the ancient and 
prized but much less sophisticated Henri Deux ware did 
not appeal to him. Some of the old Rouen he approved, 
for it was gay, and some of the Chinese porcelain, but 
not all. 

” I can’t think what the ci-devant s could see in some 
of this foreign stuff ! ” he declared, stopping before a large 
bowl of dark blue Chinese pottery, over which crawled 
sinuous dragons of lighter blue and cream faintly tinged 
with pink. ” I call that coarse ! ” Valentine, who knew 
that her father-in-law had prized the bowl because it was 
early Ming, did not venture to dispute this dictum. 

” I like a thing with some work in it,” went on M. 


103 


THE JASPER CUP 

Georges Camain. Now I feel I could have done those 
beasts myself ; look at the rough, raised outline they 
have. It may be old — I believe it is. Give me something 
more modem and delicate, hke the setting of that jasper 
cup over there — Gouthiere, I fancy. You have a good 
look at it afterwards, Mme Vidal.*' 

The jasper cup was stiU here then ! Yes, she would have 
a good look at it — afterwards, not now. 

From the cup, under its glass shade, M. Camain’s eyes 
strayed up to the portraits. 

“ It would be strange, would it not, if all these painted 
gentry roxmd us could really see us in this sanctum of 
theirs,” he said suddenly, giving voice to Valentine’s own 
thoughts. “ That old lady yonder — she looks a terror ! — 
rather reminds me of my aunt Fourrier, who used to keep 
the bric-a-brac shop in the Rue St. Julien at Angers.” 

And he indicated the portrait of the Duchesse Charlotte- 
Ehsabeth, a voluminous dame who had flourished in the 
Regency. 

” The last Duchesse of all isn’t here,” went on M. Camain, 
raising his spy-glass again as if, after all, he were not sure. 
** They destroyed her portrait the night the chateau was 
taken — again that undiscriminating zeal of the Sovereign 
People, more undiscriminating than usual in this case, 
for I understand that the Duchesse was known for her 
charities. And I have often regretted the destruction on 
other grounds, because since Mirabel has been under my 
charge I wanted to see what she was like, and why the Due 
deserted her.” 

” Deserted her ! ” exclaimed Valentine, in a voice that 
made the Deputy drop his glass and turn and look at her. 
Then she added faintly, ” I never heard. . . . Did he 
desert her, then ? ” 

” Perhaps that's putting it rather strongly,” said Camain 
smiling. ” We all know that the aristocrats who hopped 
so gaily across the frontiers in 'go and 'gi thought they 
were coming back again in a few weeks. I daresay the 
Due de Trelan had the same delusion. But I have heard 
it said that he never even gave his wife the chance of 
going with him — ^hooked it without her knowing ... I 
believe they hardly ever saw one another. So she stayed 
behind — ^more fool she ! — and lost her hfe in consequence.” 


104 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Fire swept over Valentine’s pale visage. Ah no, no, 

but he did ” she broke out, and then, finding a difficulty 

in speaking, pulled herself together. “ I mean, surely he 
must have given the Duchesse the chance of accompanying 
him ! ” She looked down at the floor as she spoke ; she 
was aware how deeply she was discomposed, and how hot 
an indignation possessed her at this false accusation which 
she had not the right to deny. And she went on, feverishly. 

In any case did not a great many . . . ci-devants . . . 
emigrate without their wives ? ” 

“ Yes — sometimes with other people’s ! ” retorted the 
Deputy with a wink. ** However, I never heard that the 
Due de Trelan did that. Mademoiselle . . . the . . . er 
. . . lady to whom he was assigned as admirer at the time 
— untruly as I believe — ^would certainly never have gone 
with him ; she was too good a patriot for that 1 That’s 
Monseigneur himself yonder, over the green console. 
What do you think of him ? He must have been much 
younger when that was painted, of course.” 

Valentine was forced to turn and look with him at the 
young man in primrose satin. ” I ... I think he must 
have been very handsome.” Surely that remark was both 
safe and natural ! 

” Oh, you women ! ” exclaimed the Deputy, showing 
signs of a return to his jocular manner. ” That always 
takes you — never fails ! They say the Duchesse herself 
was not insensible to it. Well, if it is any consolation to 
you, Madame Vidal, no doubt he is handsome still, for that 
matter . . . more than can be said for that old boy next 
him. Who is it ? ” He put up his glass again to make 
out the name of Gaston de Trelan’s neighbour, a very early 
dark portrait of a Knight of Malta. 

” And I cannot believe,” went on Valentine with a thrill 
in her voice, ” that he never invited his wife to go with him.” 

” ‘ Raoul de Saint-Chamans, Vice-Commander of the 
Order,’ ” read out Camain. ” What Order, I wonder ? — 
I beg your pardon, Madame Vidal ; you were saying ? 

Mme de Trelan ran a finger nervously along the edge 
of one of the cases. ” I was wondering. Monsieur le Depute, 
from what you said, whether you knew anything of the 
Due’s present whereabouts.” 


105 


THE JASPER CUP 

“ I ? Dame, no, nothing at all ! Why should I ? ** 

Valentine tried to perpetrate a jest. “ He might appear 
at Mirabel some day.*' 

** I shouldn’t advise him to,” returned the Deputy rather 
gimly. ” Not, at all events, till he has made his peace 
with the Government. ... If he should turn up I 
shall expect you to teU me,” he added lightly. ” It 
is part of your duties as concierge. But of course he will 
never come. Why should he, after all these years ? 
Much too comfortable where he is, I expect — probably 
married again to some rich English lady. . . . Look here, 
Madame Vidal, I must be going. No, leave the shutters 
open, please, because I should like you to go round and 
have a good dust here when I am gone. I keep a feather 
duster in the drawer of that console, under Monseigneur 
the ex>Duc. After you, if you please ! ” 

He held open the door for her. 

” Do you know, Madame,” he said abruptly as they 
went down the great staircase together, ” what I should 
hke to do with Mirabel ? It is mere extravagant nonsense 
trying to turn it into a museum. There’s the chateau of 
Vers^les already for that, and at the Lou\Te those cart- 
loads of pictures and statues that General Bonaparte sent 
from Italy the year before last. No, I should like to see 
Mirabel made into something like an orphanage, — run by 
the State, of course, not by nuns — for the children of 
dead soldiers. If our wars go on much longer, they will 
need it — poor little devils ! ” 

He spoke with genuine feeling. Valentine was aston- 
ished, and listened with a sort of unwilling respect while 
he developed the theme a little. By this time they w'ere 
outside her own modest quarters in the lower regions, and 
here the Deputy, asking if he might come in, entered 
practically without permission. Once inside, he pulled 
from his pocket a leather case. 

” Permit me, Madame, since I am here,” he said, ” to 
discharge the office of paymaster. The concierge of Mirabel 
is usually paid on the first of every month, but you have 
no doubt had to disburse something, and will be glad not 
to wait till the beginning of Prairial.” And he counted 
out assignats on to the cloth. 

Valentine de Trelan flushed. Although she knew that 


io6 THE YELLOW POPPY 

there was a salary attached to the post she occupied, it 
was a different thing to receive it in concrete form from the 
hand of an authority whom she did not recognise. She 
instantly renewed her resolve of giving it in charity through 
Suzon Tessier. 

“ Now I will leave you the key of the china gallery,’* 
said Camain, bringing out the object in question. “ None 
of the cases are locked, as you saw, so do not admit 
any visitors there at present. Keep everything care- 
fully dusted, Madame Vidal, if you please, the pictures 
as well. I daresay you will like to give an extra 
flick now and then to the last Due’s portrait, as 
you have evidently constituted yourself his champion 
against detractors such as myself — No, I like the sentiment ; 
I wish the concierge of Mirabel to identify herself with 
Mirabel, and I am fortunate in having found one who is 
capable of it. Madame Prevost, good woman, was not. . . . 
I fear I must trouble you to accompany me to the door, 
in order to fasten it after me. . . . Au plaisir de vous 
re voir, Madame ! ” He made a sweeping bow and went 
up the steps. 

So Valentine de Saint-Chamans, Duchesse de Tr41an, 
went back to her room, found the assignats, the price of 
her services, lying on the table, and, with an expression of 
distaste, locked them away. Then she began to search 
for a cloth to supplement the feather duster. 

No one in the world — that just-foundered world to 
which she belonged — ^had had unquestioned right to her 
services save the Queen of France, but to serve her 
(as she had done) was the crown of honour. Perhaps for 
that reason Mme de Trelan found a savour in the situation 
— commanded to dust her own china ! There was even a 
faint smile on her lips as she entered the gallery again — 
but she kept her eyes averted from her husband’s portrait. 

The Sevres now was in hands such as it had been made 
for. She went over it slowly and carefully. Was it hers, 
or was it Camain’s, or the property of those who had 
ravished Mirabel ? Not for the first time since '92 the 
thought of the problem of property came over her. How 
could anything material be really owned ? She, who had 
had so much of the world’s goods, was now stripped of 
everything, and all but constrained to accept a pittance 


107 


THE JASPER CUP 

from the plunderers. Were the only things that remained 
to one then, the mind, the heart, what one had learnt and 
suffered ? She had begun to think so. And still the 
problem remained : were the rights of property inalienable, 
as it was in her blood to believe them, or was this little 
Dresden figure in her hand not hers by right any longer 
because she had no means now to enforce that right ? 

“ Really, I am becoming a Jacobin, or a philosopher,** 
she said to the little shepherdess. “ In any case, my dear, 
the roses round your hat are very dusty.** 

After the Sevres and Meissen and Vienna she dusted and 
wiped the Oriental ware ; the great Chinese vase that 
Camain had pronounced coarse,’* and that frail and mar- 
vellous eggshell porcelain which must be held to the light 
before one can see that dragons and clouds and waves 
live within its walls of moonbeam. Then she came, among 
the other treasures of ivory and crystal and enamel, on the 
jasper cup to which the Deputy had directed her attention. 
As if she did not know it ! 

The low sun, pleased to find for once an entry at the 
rarely opened shutters, danced in shafts and motes of 
brightness over the dull golden mounting that had made 
of it so costly a thing. Round the curve of the red-brown, 
half translucent jasper ran a wreath of tiny golden laurel 
leaves gemmed with pearls ; delicate httle vine branches 
laden with grapes were woven together at the bottom to 
form a framework for the cup, and the whole rested on 
three faun-headed supports. Underneath, a golden serpent 
with eyes of topaz wriggled its way towards the vine 
clusters. 

That jasper cup was the last thing which her husband 
had given her, not long before his emigration. But money 
could not buy what Valentine de Trelan wanted then. 
Gouthiere, when he designed and mounted the goblet, 
had not done ill in placing the little snake underneath. 
Valentine had thought so at the time, and had almost 
disliked the precious thing — symbol, so it sometimes 
seemed to her, of her life and Gaston’s, that might have 
been so different if they had not been bom to such idle 
greatness, a cup too richly set to drink out of. 

She gazed at it now with compressed lips, aware that 
vine and laurel leaves were becoming blurred by the slow, 


io8 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


hot tears that were rising to her eyes. Suddenly she 
turned away from it, and walking at last to the young man 
over the console looked up at him. 

Yes, he had been like that ! Yes, he had had that 
expression — once ! How could I have kept your heart, 
Gaston ? " she asked, gazing at the smiling eyes. For he 
had a heart as undoubtedly as he had charm and distinction 
and courage and wit ... as well as riches and a great 
name and Mirabel. Yet one thing was lacking always — 
and after all these years it was hard to be sure what it was. 

Or — as she had often and often thought — was it not 
rather she who lacked ? Yet what could she have given 
him that she had not ? That other men in those days of 
universal gallantry had been so ready to call her cold and 
heartless, was that a reason for reproach ? If she could 
have the past again, what would she have done differently ? 
— till that last fatal taunt. She did not know. Had it all 
been inevitable tragedy then, fixed for them before ever 
they met, from the moment they had been born ? 

It was double tragedy too. Gaston’s indifference to 
her love was his wife’s private sorrow, and not his fault, for 
how could love come at bidding ? But his lifelong indif- 
ference to the claims of ambition — of duty even — how was 
that to be condoned or explained ? No, he was like some 
tall ship, gallantly furnished and manned, that had never 
made the great voyage for which it had been built, but 
had drifted always with light airs, till drifting was no longer 
possible ... at least on a summer sea. Where was it 
now ? 

She could not take her eyes from the picture, though the 
glance the canvas gave her back was like a blade in a 
wound. But Gaston could not be like that now — nor like 
the Gaston who had left her presence so mortally insulted. 
Yet if he knew exile and material loss he had not 
known the hard discipline of prison and contumely. He, 
she was sure, had never been reduced to earning his bread. 
What was he doing — if he lived ? Married again, perhaps, 
to some rich lady, as the Deputy had suggested, for if he 
had taken the trouble to make enquiries about his wife’s 
fate he must indubitably, like all her world, believe her 
dead. 

Taken the trouble ! Unjust, unjust ! She knew that he 


THE JASPER CUP 109 

must have done all he could ; she never doubted that. 
And back leapt the memory of that plebeian's unworthy 
accusation — that he had deserted her, had not given her 
the chance of accompanying him. Had he not ! twice 
over, once repulsed by that utterance of hers which had 
wounded him so deeply as to betray him into an uniorget- 
table retort, and then, generously, by his letter. And the 
Deputy had said. . . . Perhaps others had said too — for 
even Suzon, if she had not told her the truth. . . . 

And so, for the first time in all these years, it occurred 
to Valentine de Trelan that her refusal to accompany her 
husband into voluntary exile had done him wrong. It was 
on his head, in this slander, that it had recoiled. It was 
not that she still did not think his judgment mistaken. 
But, of the two obstinacies set in the lists against each other 
that day was not hers, after all, the more culpable ? As 
she could not turn him, ought she not to have stayed by 
his side ? Even though he were wrong it was hardly a 
crime that he was committing. . . Deserted her ? Was 
it not rather she, who, remaining against his will, had 
deserted him ? 

And again it struck at her, Camain’s accusation. How 
dared he, an upstart, a man of the people, how dared he 
throw mud at the Due de Troian, as far above him in 
character as he was removed in rank ! But whose action 
was it that had given him the opportunity of throwing 
mud ? Ah, if they had not separated ... if she had 
done what he wished. . . . 

The sun had left the window. A blackbird in the over- 
grown park outside was proclaiming rapturous things. 
Inside, among the Sevres and the portraits, the Duchesse 
de Troian, her arms outstretched on the cold malachite 
of the console beneath her husband's picture was weeping 
bitterly. She had not known that it would be like this ! 
The hfe of long ago, sunk for ever beneath those whirl- 
pools of fury and carnage — regret for that was past. 
She was strong enough to face its cold relics without falter- 
ing. But Mirabel held, after all, not only the phantom 
of a dead existence, but of a love slowly slain . . . and 
not dead. Oh, if only Gaston were back in Mirabel again ! 

But there was no living creature in the great house save 


no 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


.herself. The young man on the wall, with his indefinable 
air of charming assurance and good society, looked out 
into the room over the faded head of his wife, and the 
blackbird in the garden continued to assert that spring 
was come. Yet for his only hearer spring would never 
come again. 


CHAPTER VI 

THE ROMAUNT OF ROLAND 


It may be doubted whether, after all, Roland de C41igny 
really regretted exchanging Ares for Aphrodite. He hardly 
knew himself, as he journeyed with his injured friend by 
discreet routes back to Finistere and that friend’s home 
near the sea. His heart was certainly sore at leaving the 
clash of arms, and he still resented the summary separation 
from his leader. Yet, to balance the sword half drawn 
and all too quickly sheathed, were the curls of Mile de la 
Vergne, enshrined in the chateau whose tourelles rose, on 
the third day, from a screen of chestnuts to greet the 
travellers. 

What, in that blest abode, would Marthe be doing when 
they came on her ? Involuntarily Roland pictured their 
meeting as a replica, and saw her again at embroidery in 
the salon with its Indian hangings. But one always paints 
these things wrong. The reality was even better. For 
there was no duenna of a mother with her, merely a rustic 
groom, when, mounted on a beautiful black thoroughbred, 
she suddenly trotted round a bend of the road. . . . 

If that is not my little sister ! ” exclaimed Artamene 
spurring forward ; and Roland, uncovering, pulled up his 
horse. 

In the dappled sunlight, under the chestnuts, brother 
greeted sister, bending from the saddle. Roland thought 
he had never seen anything more beautiful. He was near 
enough to hear the joy and the anxiety in Mile de la Vergne’s 
voice, her stream of enquiries. Then Artamene looked 
back and beckoned. 

“ Let me present M. le Vicomte de Celigny, whom you 
have already met, ma soeur, in a new role — that of the 
trusty garde-malade. Since I cannot dispense with his 
services he comes to stay with us for a few days.” 

The little hand which Marthe, pulling off her gauntlet, 

III 


II2 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


surrendered with a smile to his salute, was it not even 
more shapely, more satin-soft to the lips than when it had 
dropped the embroidery needle to submit to the same 
reverential greeting ? And she herself, in her long blue 
habit, her man’s high-crowned buckled hat, seemed even 
more desirable than in high-waisted white, yellow-sprigged 
muslin of that afternoon in the salon ! 

“ Tell S4raphin to gallop back and tell Maman,” sug- 
gested Artamene. 

And so they rode slowly along, Marthe in the middle, 
and talked of their adventures. The wind blew a fold of 
the long habit against Roland’s foot. Except on the day 
when he had joined the Marquis de Kersaint, M. de Celigny 
had never been so happy in his life — for his rapture on the 
occasion of the Marquis’s appearance at Kerlidec had been 
clouded by his grandfather’s hostility. Now there was 
nothing to stain this perfect joy, and Roland was too deeply 
enthralled even to envy the solicitous glances which Marthe 
threw at her brother’s be-slinged left arm. 

Sad that out of happiness may spring trouble ! If the 
seeds of Roland’s escapade were not exactly sown during 
that short ride the ground was at any rate prepared for 
their reception. 

Mme de la Vergne, warned by the herald, was on the 
perron to greet them. Artamene flung himself off his 
horse and ran up the steps, and, while the good lady 
embraced her son, Roland had the bliss of dismounting 
Mile de la Vergne — of receiving her for one brief second in 
his arms as she slipped like a feather from the saddle. Then 
followed his own reception by Mme de la Vergne, small 
and fair and so unlike her daughter ; and he found himself 
being thanked — thanked ! — for accompanying her son hither. 

Maman” sang Marthe to die harpsichord that 
evening, ** Maman, dites-moi ce qu'on sent quand cm 
aime, Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment? Je suis tout le 
pur dans une peine extreme, Et la nuit ie ne sais com- 
ment ! ” 

Was she ? No I But Roland, that night, could not sleep 
for exaltation. 

Artamene, by his mother’s desire, remained in bed next 
morning. A smgeon had been summoned to view his arm. 


THE ROMAUNT OF ROLAND 


X13 

** Come and feed the poultry, Monsieur de Celigny — or 
are you too proud ? ” suggested Mile de la Vergne after 
breakfast. ** We are very rustic here, you must know, for 
we are short of farm servants/* 

Roland, who would have swept a pigsty at her bidding, 
followed her as to some high festival. The hens who drove 
clucking round his feet might have been the doves of 
Venus. And the pigeons did indeed sweep in a cloud over 
Marthe, and ate out of her hand. Roland feared they 
pecked too hard. 

When Artam^ne appeared he found them sitting in the 
lime arbour. 

Is our paladin telling you of his adventures ? '* he 
enquired, sitting down beside them. 

“ I have none to tell,** answered Roland. ** It is you, 
mon cher, with your wound and your sling and your 
surgeon, who have the beau r6le.'* 

'* And all wasted on a sister ! ** observed the hero with 
a grin. 

** M. de Celigny has been telling me,*’ said Marthe, 
“ the strange story about the old lady and the treasure of 
Mirabel. Do you believe it ? *' 

** I believed it sufficiently to try to get sent after the 
treasure,” replied her brother. ” So, taking a mean 
advantage of my slumbers, did Roland.** 

Marthe turned her brilliant dark eyes from one to the 
other. Artam^e shook his head. 

” Our request was not favourably received.” 

” O, what a pity ! ” sighed Mile de la Vergne. 

Flecks of sunlight came through the linden-leaves on to 
her dark hair, bringing out unsuspected warmth in its 
ebony, and on to a red stone on her finger. 

” There is a ruby necklace there,” said Roland suddenly, 
his eyes moving from her ringlets to her hand. ” And 
hundreds of louis in pistoles of the time of Louis XIII . 
So the plan said. Oh, if we could only have gone ! ’* 

” And is all that hoard to lie there, then, unused, while 
the Cause goes short of money ? ** 

” Oh, no ! ** said both the young men together. ” Pres- 
ently, when M. de Kersaint has got the authority of the 
Due de Tr^an, wherever he may be, he will send some one 
after it** 


H 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


114 


** Some one — ^whom ? ** 

** I should think very probably M. de Brencourt/' replied 
Roland. 

“ And he must wait — perhaps for weeks and weeks — 
before he can start ? " 

Yes/' said her brother, ** unless the Marquis, who, 
as M. de C^ligny will have told you, is a kinsman of M. 
de Trelan's, decides to act without his authorisation, which, 
from what he said, it is quite hkely he may do." 

" So that M. de Troian’s authorisation is not indispens- 
able ? " 

" No. Only a matter of form, I think. Being an 
emigre — and Mirabel confiscated — ^he can neither prevent 
nor forward such an attempt." 

Mile de la Vergne was silent, pushing at the gravel with 
a little shoe and looking down at it. " Where is Mirabel, 
did you say ? " 

" Quite near Paris, I gather," repUed Artamene. 

" I wish," said Marthe pensively, " that I were in Paris 
— quite near Mirabel ! " 

" My dear little sister, what would be the good of that ? " 
asked Artamene, amused. 

" I have relatives in Paris," announced Roland, with 
sudden and apparent irrelevance, ** two old cousins of my 
father's — quiet, unsuspected, unsuspicious old gentlemen." 

The little silence which followed this statement was 
broken by a whirr of wings as one of Marthe's pigeons 
alighted on the gravel outside the arbour, and, looking 
hard and hopefully at them out of one round, red-circled, 
unemotional eye, began to walk slowly up and down, 
jerking its burnished neck. 

" O, if I were only a man ! " exclaimed Mile de la Vergne, 
abruptly, springing to her feet with kindhng eyes. 

" If I only had two arms ! " said her brother, following 
her example, but more slowly. 

" But I aw a man, and both my arms are sound ! " cried 
Roland, almost brandishing those members. 

" And you have relatives in Paris who could help you ! " 
said Marthe, turning her eyes on him. 

" Well, no, hardly help,* said Roland slowly, thinking 
of his ancient and peaceful kinsmen. " But they could 
give me a roof. . . ." 


THE ROMAUNT OF ROLAND 


115 

" And I could give you money to bribe anyone who 
needed bribing/' declared Marthe. At least, I have my 
pearls/' 

** Oh, curse this arm ! ” muttered the wounded hero. 
** Yet, after all, I do not see why I also " 

** No ! no ! " exclaimed both the others. ** No, we 
know what the surgeon said. That would be the sheerest 
folly " — as if what they had in their own inflammable 
heads were cold wisdom. 

Artamene leant dejectedly against the side of the arbour. 

I don’t see how you coifld do anything, Roland. You 
have not the plan of the late lamented of the time of Mazarin. 
You could not go and dig all over a place of that size on 
chance, even if the Directory gave you permission, which 
it certainly would not 1 " 

“ But I saw the plan I '* retorted the Vicomte de C^ligny. 
“ I saw it perfectly clearly over the Abbe’s shoulder that 
night. Why, I could draw it now, if I had a pencil. 
Nobody has one ? Well, look here ! ” 

He broke off a twig from the lime-tree and began a series 
of scratches on the gravel, just as a bell clanged from the 
house to summon them to the midday meal — ^scratches 
which Seraphin diligently raked out during that repast. 

By sunlight and by twihght and by lamplight, under the 
arbour, on the lawn, in the salon, the rough plan made from 
that fleeting glimpse of the original was constructed and 
reconstructed and discussed. So much were their young 
heads bent over it the next evening that Mme de la Vergne 
said they looked like conspirators. 

Ma mere, you are perspicacious," replied her son. 
" We are conspirators." But, not really believing him, 
she did not pursue the question, and indeed, before she 
could revert to it, Artamene looked very hard at his sister 
and asked her if she were not going to sing to them. 

Roland added his entreaties, and attended Mile de la 
Vergne to the harpsichord. 

" \^at shall I sing ? ” asked she. " No, I do not 
need any music, thank you. You must join in the 
chorus, then. Monsieur, you and Artamene." And with 
a mischievous smile she broke into the old children's ronde 
of La Double Violette : 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


ii6 

“ J*ai un long voyage d faire^ 

Je ne sais qui le fera ; 

Si je I’dis d Valouette 
Tout le monde le saura ! 

La violette double double. 

La violette doublera ! 

*' Si je Vdis d Valouette, 

T out le monde le saura : 

Rossignol du vert bocage 
Faites-moi ce plaisir4d / ” 

and when she got to 

** Rossignol prend sa volee, 

Au chateau d' amour s*en va** 

she looked at Roland. 

Afterw'ards they sang other songs. 

Next day the conspirators met again in the arbour for a 
final council of war. They could not improve upon the 
map which the two young men had made — indeed, the 
question rather was whether they had not already im- 
proved it out of all resemblance to the original. Roland’s 
immediate movements were now under discussion. Though 
it must shorten his visit, they all, even Roland himself, 
lelt that no time was to be lost. M. de C^ligny was sup- 
posed, of course, to be on his way to Kerhdec and hjs 
grandfather. 

“ But it will be wiser,” said he, ” not to go there now. 
When I return. . . .You see, he might m^e difficulties 
about my visiting Paris at all. So 1 will write to him. . . 

He would not accept Mile de la Vergne's pearls, though 
he thought it sublime of her to offer them. He had plenty 
of money, he said. And he settled to start next day. 
Artamene tried to salve his own fierce dejection by resolving 
to accompany him part of the way. 

But, perhaps from the excitement of these dehberations, 
the Chevalier de la Vergne’s arm became unexpectedly 
painful during the night. It was out of the question for 
him even to leave his bed next morning, and, for once in 
his hfe, he did not seem wishful to do so. Roland s offer 


THE ROMAUNT OF ROLAND 


117 

to delay his departure was, however, declined by him. 
Mme de la Vergne, supposing their young guest to be 
setting off for Kerlidec — a point on which he did not un- 
deceive her — ^hoped that he would visit them again, and 
when he asked if he might pay his parting respects to 
Mile de la Vergne (having already taken a bedside farewell 
of her brother), rephed rather absently that she was prob- 
ably in the poultry-yard, and that if M. de C^igny would 
give himself the trouble. . . . For her thoughts were not 
at the moment with an unchaperoned daughter and what 
a susceptible young man might say to her ere he rode 
away, but with her son in pain upstairs, and whether 
the surgeon really understood his case, and if the constant 
poulticing he had ordered were right. Besides — though 
this even the inquiring mind of Artamene had never come 
near guessing — there existed a certain understanding 
between her and M. de Came on the subject of Roland and 
Mar the. 

Roland was off before the permission could be revoked. 
But Mile de la Vergne was not in the poultry yard, though 
matters connected with her pensioners had drawn her 
to the spot where he found her, the miniature bridge 
which spanned the little stream winding through the 
grounds. From this she was watching with some anxiety 
the first voyage of a brood of ducklings down that St. 
Lawrence. Roland was stabbed to the heart. He was 
going to danger, to prison perhaps, for her — and her mind 
was set on ducklings ! 

Erect and noble (so he hoped — at any rate booted and 
spurred) the young man walked towards the bridge. 
Directly she turned, the surprise and concern on her face 
healed him. 

“ What ! you are going already, Monsieur de Celigny ! 
I thought it was not to be for another hour, and that you 
were closeted with Artamene . . . and I might have 
missed wishing you Godspeed because of these wretched 
little adventurers ! ” 

“ Ah no. Mademoiselle ! said Roland. ** Do you think 
I should have gone like that ? I have need of aU the 
benedictions you can give me.'* 

And what she gave him satisfied him fully — only a look, 
but a look so charged with meaning — and both her hands. 


ii8 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


There on the tiny bridge he raised them with reverence 
and joy to his lips. Her silence, her faint flush, her move- 
ment of surrender, whether it were ultimate or no, dubbed 
him indeed her knight, going to the ogre's castle with her 
colours on his helm — ^invincible indeed, and supremely 
blest to serve at once his lady and his King. 

And unregarded, in that high moment, went the indig- 
nant comments of the little yellow navigator under their 
very feet, who was finding the stream on which his in- 
experience had embarked of an unlooked-for strength and 
volume. 


CHAPTER VII 

CHILDE ROLAND COMES TO THE DARK TOWER 

Valentine de Trelan was kneeling before her crucifix 
ere retiring to bed when she heard the first shot. The report 
broke so sharply across her prayers that, hke a noise heard 
in sleep, its first demand on the senses was the question 
whether it were real. The second shot brought her to 
her feet in some concern. Who could be firing so late, and 
at what ? The sentry, at some marauder ? But, as far 
as she could judge, the sound came from the ^eat garden 
at the back, where no sentry was. Her first impulse was 
to go out in that direction to investigate, but she supposed 
she must not leave her post, in case she were summoned for 
any reason. She dressed again, and went out to the 
passage and hstened. 

Sure enough, some ten minutes later, there came a knock- 
ing on one of the more distant doors that gave on to the 
garden front. She fetched her keys, and hastening along 
the lengthy corridor, opened it. Outside were two N ational 
Guards, her friend Gregoire Thibault and another. Gre- 
goire had a musket over his shoulder.’* 

Sorry to disturb you, citoyenne," said he, half apolo- 
getically. “You have not seen anything of a man prowhng 
round here, I suppose ? “ 

“ Nothing,” answered Mme de Trelan with perfect truth. 
“ Was that what you were firing at ? ” 

“ Jacques here,” said Gregoire, “ was going along the 
road when he saw — or thought he saw — ^in the distance 
a man climbing over the wall that goes round the park. 
He was off duty, so he had not his musket, and instead of 
going after him he came to teU me, as I was nearer than the 
guard house.*’ 

“Not being quite the figure for chmbing walls either, 
citoyenne,” put in Gr6goire's companion with reason. 

“So we separated, and each went round a different 
119 


120 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


side of the chateau. The light was getting bad, and the 
first time I fired at something moving it was comrade 
Jacques here. Luckily I didn't hit him. Then a few 
minutes later I saw my gentleman for a second by a big 
bush of something, but, parbleu, he slipped round one of 
those heathen goddesses or whatever they are. I sent a 
remembrancer after him from this *’ — Gregoire slapped his 
musket — and I am almost sure I hit him ; but do 
you think I could find him anywhere in the garden ? 
No!" 

Valentine, who knew the extent of the garden — park, 
rather — so much better than he, was convinced that the 
time which had elapsed between the second shot and his 
appearance at the chateau was not a quarter long enough 
for a thorough search, especially in the rapidly failing fight, 
so that the odds were the intruder, if wounded, was still 
there. She said as much. 

" Well, he can stay there till daylight," announced the 
Citizen Gregoire composedly, " and reflect on his crimes. 
If he isn't there he has made off, and won’t be likely to 
return in a hurry. You are not nervous, are you, Madame 
Vidal ? " 

"Not the least in the world," the Duchesse assured him. 
" Did you see what this man was like, or have you any 
idea why he should come into the garden ? " 

" From the way in which he slipped over that wall," 
remarked Jacques, " I should say he was young." 

" I daresay," put in Gregoire consolingly, " that it was 
only some inquisitive lad wanting to see inside the garden. 
You will be all right, Madame Vidal ; he can't possibly 
get into the house. If I wasn't sure of it, parbleu, I would 
stay the night here." 

If Gregoire Thibault, in the days of the Terror, had 
been a hunter of suspects, as he gave himself out to be, 
his zeal had sadly suffered eclipse since that time. It 
was clear that he wished to minimise the seriousness of 
the inroad in order to get home to his bed, and for the 
same reason, had no intention of turning out the rest 
of the guard. Valentine was not in the least anxious to 
keep him from that haven, and so after a few reassuring 
words the twain departed, and Mme de Trelan was free 
to resume her interrupted orisons, with a conviction that 


THE DARK TOWER 


I2I 


some man, with purpose unknown, was lurking in the 
precincts of Mirabd. 

The affair indeed was a strange interruption to the 
almost cloistral quiet of the last few weeks, into which 
news of the outer world came only through Suzon Tessier 
or Toinon the laitihe^ or by the unencouraged gossip 
of the scrubbers. For, since she never went into the 
hamlet, Valentine might almost have been a recluse living 
the contemplative life with brief intervals of the active. 
Sometimes, already, it seemed to her that she had never 
known Mirabel under conditions any different. 

She did go to bed, and after a time went to sleep, but 
woke about midnight, and remained awake, for she found 
that she could not well bear the idea of a fellow-creature 
lying out all night in the dark and lonely park, perhaps in 
agony to boot, even though he were a thief or something of 
the kind. But it was useless looking for him before 
daylight. The thought that he might try to effect an entry 
she dismissed. At dawn she rose, dressed, and slipped out 
behind Mirabel. 

It was three o’clock, and the first thrush was singing 
in that vast desert of a garden. Along the weed-infested 
paths went the Duchesse, and through bosquet after 
bosquet, tended groves no longer, but thickets so overgrown 
that some were almost impassable. Nettles, burdocks, 
thistles, briars, those raiding colonists were ever3rwhere, 
waging war against the smothering advances of the un- 
clipped ivy. But the little lake in the distance mirrored no 
taU pines now on its tarnished surface. Of that aisle of 
scent and murmurs the nearer pillars were but stumps ; 
the farther stood lonely and condemned against the sky. 
Valentine did not look this morning at those distant 
martyrs ; she kept her gaze on the ground as she made 
her way between the bushes or skirted the long, dripping 
grass of some once-shaven little lawn. Such terms and 
sylvan deities as still had heads looked at their former lady 
with cold and curious, in some cases with leering eyes. 
Had she been wandering there without an object she 
might have had leisure to taste the infinite sadness of 
that place, made only for pleasure and good company, or 
to remember, perhaps, certain passages of its light past. 
But she was searching for an unfortunate ; and that the 


122 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


unfortunate, when found, might prove to be a very un- 
desirable person indeed, that, in fact, she was disposed to 
picture him as such, did not greatly trouble her. The 
last few incredible years had given her a S5nnpathy with 
the hunted. 

Full though her mind was of her quest, the first indication 
that it was on the way to prove successful gave her some- 
thing of a shock. She had come to the head of the flight of 
shallow marble steps that led from one little terrace to 
the next, when she suddenly perceived on each a small, 
reddish, star-shaped splash. She bent down ; yes, it was 
blood — the trail of the pursued. On the grassgrown gravel 
at the foot of the steps it was more difficult to follow, but 
the track began again, clearer and larger than before, on 
a short flight that led once more upwards. On one step 
there was even a smear, that looked hke the print of a 
hand, as though the wounded man had stumbled and 
recovered himself. 

And thus, finally, in what had been known as the Bosquet 
de Mercure, she found the invader, fallen sideways at the 
foot of the bronze statue of Mercury — a young man, pale 
as marble and as beautiful as the god himself, and so unlike 
what she had expected that she stood a moment as still 
as he. That he was a gentleman was plain without the 
evidence of his clothes ; and he wore, as further and 
indeed defiant proof, the black coat-collar which marked 
the aristocrat and reactionary, the collet noir which had 
caused so many pitched battles in the streets of Paris. One 
arm lay out on the gravel, crushing a little company of 
that innocent and joyous flower, the speedwell, which had 
rooted there, intruding in the garden hke him, and, hke 
him, shut-eyed. The other hand held a red bah of a 
handkerchief which had probably, during consciousness, 
been pressed against the dark patch on the left side of his 
grey coat. 

And Valentine, her heart alight with compassion, began 
to stoop over her quarry . . . stopped, raised herself 
again, and put out a hand to the base of the statue for 
support. In the unconscious face at her feet she suddenly 
saw. . . Whence came that resemblance ? She was 
carried back a hundred years, to a morning in her young 
wifehood here at Mirabel, to an early wakening, to the 


THE DARK TOWER 


123 


thrush, just heard, like this, in the summer dawn . . . 
while by her side lay the husband who still summed up all 
her dreams, on whom she had looked down with the yet 
untroubled eyes of love, and whose sleeping visage had 
been the very counterpart of this. 

But in a moment the illusion was fled, and she did not 
know how it had ever come. Leaving the statue she 
knelt down by the fallen youth and felt for his heart. It 
was beating. She began to unfasten his neckcloth. But 
how was she to convey him into the chateau ? She could 
not carry him. Besides, how badly was he hurt ? Could 
she possibly get him into that damp little pseudo-classical 
temple of Ceres on the other side of the grove ? But the 
first thing was to try to revive him. When she had been 
a fine lady she would have had a vinaigrette or something 
of the sort about her ; now there was nothing for it but to 
scoop up in her hollowed palms a little stagnant water 
from the basin at the foot of the statue, and to dash it, 
greenish as it was, over the white face. Three times she 
did this without any result but temporary disfigurement, 
and then set to work to rub the intruder’s hands, long patri- 
cian hands like her own, like . . . But that was folly. 

Grandpere ! said the young man suddenly, ** Monsieur 
le Marquis ! . . . Artamene . . . Where am I, then ? ” 
He opened his eyes, tried rashly to raise himself, and 
relapsed with a groan, his hand to his wounded side. ** What 
has happened to me ? ... Is this a garden ? ” 

Valentine slipped her arm under his head. ** Do not 
try to move yet, Monsieur,” she said in her beautiful voice. 

You are in the park of Mirabel — ^with a friend.” 

He stared up at her, utterly perplexed. (But his eyes 
were brown, quite unlike that dark grey.) ” I am so 
thirsty,” he said, like a child. 

” You cannot drink this stagnant water,” replied Mme 
de Trelan compassionately, and then, looking closer and 
seeing how dry and cracked his lips were, bethought her 
of a spring that flowed, or that used to flow, through a 
lion’s mouth in the grotto of Latona, a few seconds away. 
” Wait,” she said, gently withdrawing her arm, ” I think 
I can get you some fresh water.” 

She rose and hastened off. Yes, the spring was still 
flowing, and even the stone goblet that served it, though 


124 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


very green, was still there. The Duchesse brought back that 
water from the past ; and, aided by her, the boy drank 
long and eagerly, and thanked her. 

M this while the dawn was growing brighter, and 
the solitary thrush now become one of a choir, and, 
though Mercury was battered and green, he held out the 
caduceus over the two figures beneath him with an air at 
once sprightly and benedictory. And the one bright 
buttercup at his feet, moved by the morning breeze, bent 
towards them too. 

My child,’' said Valentine gently, as she set down the 
goblet, “ I do not know what you were doing here last 
night, but I suppose you do. At any rate you were shot 
at by the sentry, and I see that you are hurt in the side, 
but not, I hope, seriously. The question is, how to move 
you so that I can do something for your wound.” 

The invader wets perfectly sensible now. ” But, Madame, 
who are you ? ” he asked. 

” The concierge of Mirabel — of the chateau,” said she. 

” I shall never find it now,” murmured the young man 
dejectedly. ” Instead, I suppose I shall have to go to 
prison.” 

“Yes, in the chateau,” said Mme de Troian encouragingly. 
“ And I will be your gaoler.” 

He understood. A look of alarm came over his face. 
“ Oh no, Madame, that would never do ! The Directory 

99 

“ I am afraid that I care very little for the Directory,” 
broke in the Duchesse calmly, beginning to unfasten the 
fichu from her neck. “Now first. Monsieur, I am going 
to tie this muslin of mine very tightly about you, for I 
think there has been no bleeding for some time, and then 
we must see whether you can get to your feet, and whether, 
with my help, you can walk as far as the chateau.” 

And five minutes or so later, with infinite precautions, 
the youth trying to put as little weight on a woman as he 
need, and to stifle the expressions of pain that came to his 
lips, they were actually progressing very slowly from the 
Bosquet de Mercure into that of Ceres. And in the pillared 
shrine of the goddess Mme de Tr^an had a moment’s 
impulse to instal her prot^6, seeing his extreme pallor 
and the possibility of his being unable to reach the house. 


THE DARK TOWER 


125 


But the little temple was eminently unsuitable for a 
hospital, she would find it very awkward to get away to 
tend him there, and he would be hable to discovery. So, 
since he assured her rather breathlessly that he was all 
right, they went forward. 

On the edge of the great fountain, however, exposed 
though it was in its open parterre, he was obliged to sit 
down and rest a moment or two. The Dudiesse sat 
beside him with her arm round him, lest he should fall 
backwards off the stone rim into the dark and viscous 
water behind him. And he, his eyes on the great house, 
seemed to be realising the extent of his prospective refuge. 
** I could not see it properly last night,'* he murmured. 

But Valentine told him not to talk. He did not alto- 
gether obey her, and his intermittent remarks as they went 
onwards in the growing light amid the increasing vocifera- 
tions of the thrushes were now and then unintelligible. 
Once he called her Marthe," and then apologised. 

Certainly there were no eyes to watch them at that early 
hour save those of the birds, no place for them to watch 
from but the overgrown thickets. And so Mme de Trelan 
got Roland de Celigny unobserved into Mirabel by the 
basement stairway at the back, and along the dark psissages 
to her room. By the time they reached her parlour he 
was mute and unresisting, and when she had steered him 
to the bed (left just as she had slipped out of it) and had 
somehow assisted him on to it, her youthful visitor, as she 
fully expected, quietly fainted away again. 


CHAPTER VIII 

HIS SOJOURN THERE 

(I) 

When the laitiere came at half-past six that morning she 
was sorry to hear that Mme Vidal was indisposed, but not 
ill-pleased to sell her, in consequence, a double portion of 
milk. So indisposed indeed was the concierge that she 
requested Toinon, when she returned to the village, to 
get conveyed to Paris a note to her niece Mme Tessier, 
asking the latter to make a few purchases and to visit her. 

The S5nnpathetic Toinon gone, Mme de Trelan went 
back to her patient. Long before this he had come to 
himself for the second time, and she had fed him with the 
milk she had reserved for her morning coffee, in a spoon. 
He took it drowsily, hke a child, and dropped off to sleep 
again. 

She thought him asleep now when she came in, and went 
about noiselessly putting the dark httle bedroom to rights, 
preoccupied aU the time with one thought, this boy's 
safety. The thought divided itself into two parts ; how 
to secure proper attention for his wound, and how to get 
the boy himself away without discovery. Her unpractised 
investigation of his hurt had already led her to suppose 
that it was a glancing flesh wound ofl the ribs, probably 
not dangerous, save from the amoimt of blood he seemed 
to have lost. Why he had risked coming by it she had 
not even a guess. 

But though she thought him asleep she saw, after a 
minute or two, as she passed by the bed, that his eyes 
were open and that he was looking at her. He was very 
flushed. 

“ Is there anything you want, mon enfant ? " she asked, 
stopping. 

He continued to look at her mutely, then made these 
brief statements : 


126 


127 


HIS SOJOURN THERE 

My name is Roland de C41igny. I ought not to have 
come. Now I shall be endangering you. Madame, I 
implore you to let me go ! ” 

** Chut ! ” retorted Valentine, laying her hand for a 
second on his forehead. “ How could you go, even if I 
would let you ? There is no need, I assure you, to trouble 
about me. Besides, why should I not care for a wounded 
man whom I find in the garden. You are not a malefactor. 
Monsieur de Celigny ! 

Mais si, Madame,** replied Roland earnestly. ** In 
intention, at least . . . that is just what I am. . . . You 
ought to give me up.** 

If we all did what we ought to do ! ** exclaimed Valen- 
tine lightly, and stood loolang down at him, convinced 
now that that momentary likeness was a trick of the dawn, 
some enchantment of the garden, anjrthing but fact. 

She felt that to ensure silence she ought to leave him ; 
unused as she was to caring for an injured man she was 
certain that he ought not to talk. In romances the wounded 
hero was always adjured not to do so, and the boy looked 
feverish. But not to know a little more about him were 
to waste the chance of arranging some plan which the 
faithful Suzon*s arrival would bring her. So, contrary 
to all romantic tradition, Valentine sat down by the bed 
and said in a business-like way, 

** Tell me. Monsieur de Celigny, as shortly as possible, what 
you came into the garden to do, and if you know anyone in 
Paris with whom it would be safe to communicate. I ask 
you this because I have a trusted friend coming to see me 
to-day, and through her something might be arranged. 
Your personal safety is the first thing to consider, yoiu- 
wound — ^which I believe is not serious — the second.** 

I have cousins in Paris,** said Roland. He gave then- 
address. I was at their house for three or four days 
before I came here.** 

Do they know where you are ? *' 

No, Madame.** 

They will be very anxious about you, then ? ** 

Yes,’* murmured he rather shamefacedly, and sighed. 

“ Are they likely to track you here ? ** 

I don’t think so,** said the adventurer. ** No, I do 
not believe it possible.** 


128 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


But the sentry saw you ; fortunately it was too dark 
to distinguish your face. They are sure to search again. 
I think the moment has come, Monsieur de Celigny, if I 
am to help you further, for you to tell me a little more. 
You see that I am your friend, and that I am not ... in 
fear of the Directory. You need not name anyone unless 
you wish, but I think you had better teU me for what 
reason you were in the park of Mirabel last night.'* 

“ Madame," replied Roland with emotion, " after what 
you have done for me I should indeed be foolish and 
ungrateful if I kept back anything from you. I came to 
Mirabel to find the hidden treasure." 

The Duchesse de Tr^an stared at him. " But, my child, 
there is no such thing I " 

From the piUow the young man’s look said as politely 
as possible, “How can you be sure of that, Madame la 
concierge ? " 

" I have known the chateau for many years," said 
Valentine, " and I assure you. . . ." She broke off, 
puzzled. 

" But I have seen a plan of its hiding-place," said Roland 
eagerly. 

" Where did you see such a thing ? " 

" When I was in Brittany with M. de " some 

remnant of caution checked him, " — with a Chouan leader." 

" A Chouan leader had a plan of a treasure hidden in 
Mirabel ! " exclaimed Mirabel’s mistress, strongest amaze- 
ment in her tone. " What was his name — no, I will not 
ask you that. Did he send you here, then ? ’’ 

" No, Madame," admitted Roland, with a return of 
shamefacedness. " He will be very angry with me — ^if 
ever I see him again." He gave a second or two to inward 
contemplation, presumably, of this anger, and went on, 
" The money was hidden here during the Fronde by the 
Due of those days, but the paper describing its whereabouts 
was stolen, and came into the hands of an old lady who was 
dying in the next house to ... to where we were. Our 
aum6nier went to see her, and she gave him the paper to 
convey to the Due de Trelan, who, I believe, is in England, 
or somewhere of the sort. A any rate he is an anigre — 
as I suppose you know, Madame." 

Valentine forced herself to remain quietly sitting there. 


HIS SOJOURN THERE 129 

Well ? she said, and her voice, from sheer self-restraint, 
sounded quite stony. 

“ And the aumonier brought it in to give to M. de 
Kersaint, because he knew that the Marquis was a kinsman 
of the Due de Trelan.*' 

“ WTiat name did you say ? ** asked Valentine, more 
and more amazed. 

“ The Marquis de Kersaint,*’ replied Roland. Then he 
stopped. I did not mean to mention the name.” 

” De Kersaint — a kinsman ! ” exclaimed Valentine, 
from whom all thoughts of encouraging prudence in the 
fugitive were now miles away. ” I never heard the name 
in my life ! A kinsman of ” 

And now Roland was staring at her. 

” Well, never mind,” said she. ” We must keep to the 
point, which is, how to get you away. Monsieur de Celigny. 
You saw this . . . this extraordinary plan, then, and — since 
you say that you were not sent — I assume that you thought 
that you would hke to come on your own account to hunt 
for the treasure. Had you any accomplices ? ” 

“Not in Paris,” rephed Roland, reddening faintly. 

“ And your cousins know nothing ? ” 

“No, I merely said that I was leaving Paris for the day 
and might be back late. You see, Madame, I meant to 
have got here earlier, but it was light so long. I only 
had a sight of that plan for a moment,” confessed the 
treasure-hunter with engaging candour, “yet I remember 
that it looked as though there were an entrance from the 
garden to a passage leading under the house to the banquet- 
ing hall, I think. But I did not realise that the garden 
was so large.” 

Again Valentine stared at him. It was making her 
dizzy to learn these facts — ^if they were facts — about her 
own house after all her years of acquaintance with it. 

“You must be crazy, my child,” she said conclusively, 
“ or the plan was a hoax. But to return to these cousins 
of yours, and how to get you restored to them. The point 
is whether it would be better to try to smuggle a surgeon 
in to you, or to smuggle you out. And what to say to 
them ? It is not over safe to tell the exact truth in a 
letter. It might endanger the bearer also. Let me 
think.” 


I 


130 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


She put her shapely, slightly roughened hand over her 
eyes, and Roland gazed at it. 

** Monsieur de Celigny," she said after a moment, un- 
covering her eyes, ** have you ever fought a duel ? 

No, Madame." 

Should you object to having come to the park of Mirabel 
for that purpose last night ? " 

Roland took her meaning, with a little smile. " There 
is nothing I should like better." 

" It is the best I can devise for the moment. As I say, 
it would not do for you to tell the truth in writing. If, 
to-morrow night, you could walk with my assistance as 
far as a little door in the park wall that I know of, and if 
your cousins could procure, with all secrecy, for a carriage 
to be there. ... You see, it will be impossible for you to 
get out of the place you have so rashly entered save in 
some such clandestine fashion, and even then any mis- 
chance " 

" Mischance to me matters not, Madame ! " cried the 
young man. " But if it were to you ! " 

The Duchesse de Trelan smiled. " Reassure yourself. 
Monsieur de Celigny. No mischance is likely to come to me. 
If you feel able I must urge you now to write a line to your 
cousins about your duel. It might be thought a trap of 
some kind if I wrote. They must see your hand." 

She fetched him pencil and paper, and together they 
concocted a letter to his elderly kinsmen, she holding the 
paper. At the end she fed him again, for the conversation 
and the effort of writing had exhausted him rather alarm- 
ingly. It was no more than was to be expected. But at 
that price Valentine had the main threads of the affair 
in her hands now. 


( 2 ) 

In the early afternoon arrived, as she had been desired, 
the faithful Tessier, with a basket containing medicaments 
and comforts. 

" I knew the place would not suit you, Madame," she 
said, almost as soon as she set foot inside the little parlour. 
" Ah, I see that you are indeed indisposed ! " For Mme 
de Trelan, to give colour to her statement to Toinon, had 
wrapped herself in a shawl. 


HIS SOJOURN THERE 131 

Suzon, I was never better in my life,” said she, and 
looked it. ** But there is someone iU here. That was 
really why I sent for you.*" 

“ Someone — ^in there ? ** ejaculated Mme Tessier, point- 
ing to the bedroom door. 

'"Yes, a young man, suffering from a gunshot wound 
in the side,*’ responded the Duchesse calmly. "You can 
give me help and advice.” 

For the moment Suzon looked little capable of either. 
Her eyes turned wildly from Mme de Tr^an to the bedroom 
door. 

" But — did he fall from heaven, or through the chimney ?” 
she managed to get out. 

" Neither. I found him in the garden at three o’clock 
this morning. He was shot by the guard last night.” 

Suzon sat down heavily on a chair. " Mercy on us ! 
What is his name, Madame, his business ? ” 

" His name — ^no, I will not teU you his name. And as 
for his business, suffice it to say that it has not succeeded. 
I want to keep him here no longer than is necessary for 
his wound, lest he should be discovered and taken.” 

" But you yourself, Madame ? ” 

" My reputation, do you mean ? ” asked the Duchesse, 
laughing. She seemed in a mood of unusual exhilaration. 
" I think, at my age, that will take care of itself.” 

" Your safety is what I mean, Madame,” said Suzon 
reproachfully. "You ought to give him up, whatever 
he was doing.” 

" That is just what I am going to do — to his relations 
if they will come and fetch him.” And Valentine explained 
her plan. When she had heard it, poor Suzon, breathing 
a sigh of relief at the prospect of getting rid of the refugee, 
almost clamoured to take the compromising letter to its 
destination. 

" And I think I had better see these gentlemen and 
bring back the answer to-morrow,” she volunteered. 

" I hardly like to ask you to do that,” said Valentine, 
hesitating. 

" Then how are you going to know, Madame, whether 
the carriage will be there or not,” objected Mme Tessier. 
" It will be difficult enough as it is to bring it all off without 
a hitch. And I am only too anxious for him to be gone. 


132 THE YELLOW POPPY 

Cleaning day or visiting day, what might happen — Heaven 
preserve us ! ” 

“ My bedroom is not on show to the general public,* 
observed Valentine lightly. “ And I can always lock 
Louise out.** (Louise commanded the brigade of cleaners.) 
“ However, I am not anxious to keep the boy, for his own 
sake. Now, what have you brought me for him, Suzette ? ** 
Mme Tessier watched her as, alert and interested, she 
unpacked the basket. Now and again there would peep 
out, in this tragically fated lady, whom she worshipped 
and protected with equal fervour — this lady who for all 
her lifetime of authority was so wonderfully humble and 
contented — some trait of those older days when her lightest 
wish had been a command. Despite her extraorinary 
consideration for others, and those her inferiors, she did 
sometimes demand services without counting the cost, 
and accept devotion as a right. And Suzon loved her 
for it. 

** This is excellent, ma fille,** said the Duchesse in a 
moment, setting out Suzon’s purchases on the table. ** I 
think that as a reward I must tell you, after all, about 
this young man*s errand — a wild-goose chase if ever there 
was one. Did you ever hear, Suzon, from your grandfather, 
of a treasure hidden in Mirabel from the time of the 
Fronde ? ** 

Why, bless you, yes, Madame,** replied Suzon. Grand- 
pere used often to talk of it. There were supposed to be 
jewels too. But I never believed it myself.** 

Valentine was taken aback at this unexpected reply. 
** You did know of it ! It is extraordinary that I should 
be the last to hear of it, then.** 

And in both their minds, as each guessed, was the 
unuttered question. Had the Due known of it too ? 
But for years now Mme Tessier had never mentioned 
M. de Trelan unless the Duchesse did so first. 

** It is very strange,** went on Mirabel’s mistress reflect- 
ively. ** And stranger still that the man who possesses 
a plan of the spot where this treasure is supposed to be 
hidden should be a Chouan leader calling himself — with 
what truth I cannot tell — a kinsman of . . . of the Due’s.’* 
A swift, tiny flush ran over her face. “ I have never heard 
his name. I think it must be a false assertion.** 


133 


HIS SOJOURN THERE 

** And that is why the young man is here, then ? ” 
interrupted Suzon despite herself. “ — sent by this Chouan 
to secure the treasure ! He is a Royalist, therefore ! — O, 
Madame 

“ Not sent, I gather,*’ corrected the Duchesse. ** Yes, 
a Royalist, a collet noir/* 

” A collet noir — one of those hotheads ! And the guard — 
you say they shot him ! Did they not search for him ? 
Will they not search again ? Really, Madame, I must say 
it, your imprudence ...” 

” The search, if you can call it so, is over,” said Mme 
de Trelan with composure, opening a pot of jelly. ” It was 
very perfunctory last night, and little better this morning, 
when the sergeant and three men came. I of course knew 
nothing — may Heaven pardon me ! ” 

” Heaven needs to watch over you ! ” murmured Suzon. 

” They think he got away — ^the obvious conclusion. 
So now we have nothing to do but to make that surmise a 
fact.” Suddenly she turned her head. “ What, in 
heaven’s name, is the poor boy doing in there now ? ” 

He was singing ; and as the two women went hastily in, 
it was apparent that his choice was that gay httle air. 
La Double Violette. 

** Suzon,” said the Duchesse in alarm, after a moment, 
“he is hght-headed. Is he worse ? What ought I to 
do?” 

“ I expect,” replied Mme Tessier, “ that a surgeon would 
say he should be bled.” 

“ Bled ! when he has lost so much blood already ! ” 

“ Rossignol prend sa volee, 

Au chateau d’ amour s' en va** 

chanted Roland, more and more out of tune. 

“ Oh, poor nightingale ! ” exclaimed Valentine, half 
laughing. “ ‘ Chateau d’amour,’ indeed ! ” 

“ Trouva la porte fermee, 

Par la fenetre il entra," 

was the songster’s next equally appropriate announcement. 

“ I will go at once to the village and get a febrifuge of 
some kind,” said Suzon, making for the door. “ I will not 
be long.” 


134 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


And Mme de Trelan was left, to be greeted with the 
nightingale’s message : 

“ Bonjour Vune, honjour V autre, 

Bonjour la hdle que voild ! 

Votre amant m'envoie vous dire 
Que vous ne Vouhliez pas ! ” 

** Child,” she said, sitting down and laying her hand 
on the hot forehead, ” you could put your strength to so 
much better use I ” 

And at her voice or touch the minstrel suddenly ceased 
his strain, while his fingers, moving over the bed, found and 
closed on her other hand. Thereafter he was at least 
quiet. 


CHAPTER IX 

HIS DEPARTURE THENCE 


Thus it was that Roland de C^ligny's exit from Mirabel 
was not so speedily effected as his hostess had planned. 
And without Suzon Tessier it is doubtful whether it would 
have been effected at all. For if Mme de Troian was cast 
for the romantic part in this drama of deliverance, it was 
Suzon who played the indispensable go-between with 
MM. de Celigny aines, she who brought in the additional 
and choicer provisions required for the invalid, she who 
supported, on cleaning-day, the fiction of Mme Vidal's 
not being able to leave her room, and personally enforced, 
in consequence, a surprising quiet among the myrmidons 
of Louise. But Roland hardly realised his debt to Mme 
Tessier ; the ardour of his gratitude glowed at the feet of 
Mme de Vidal — as he persisted in calling her. 

But on the fourth evening he was well enough to go, the 
two women thought ; and, for his part, well enough to be 
sorry to go. 

It had been arranged that at ten o’clock a carriage should 
be in waiting outside a certain little door in the park waU 
at the end of the lime-tree avenue known as the A116e des 
Soupirs — a door which the Duchesse had already investi- 
gated, and from which, when she oiled the rusty bolts, she 
had tom away in readiness the plastered ivy. This door 
was some distance down the park, and, therefore, to 
accustom him to the use of his legs, Valentine had caused 
her patient to walk several times round the room with the 
assistance of Suzon and herself. It was already getting 
dark ; Suzon had gone back to Paris, and, since Mme de 
Troian dared not have her patient in her living-room 
in case of a surprise, she had taken her armchair into her 
bedroom and ensconced him in it, to eat his supper before 
he faced the journey to the door, and herself sat down to 
bear him company. 


135 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


136 

And while he ate Roland talked ; or, to be more accurate, 
when he was not talking, he ate. Propped up with pillows 
in his chair, bright-eyed, with a varying colour, he appeared, 
as he was, excited, and not the less attractive for his con- 
dition. His wound was not, Suzon said, doing very well, 
but he seemed free from fever, and it was too dangerous for 
him to stay longer. Both Valentine and he laiew that. 
So he utihsed the last remaining half-hour in converse, and 
not being of a suspicious nature, never considered that 
this woman who was saving him could quite easily betray 
him afterwards when she had gained from him all the 
information she wanted, nor even that it might be worth 
her while letting him slip for the sake of that information. 
The concierge’s extraordinary kindness and generosity had 
earned, besides his undying gratitude, his whole-hearted 
confidence. Moreover, as he told himself, however she 
came to her present position, it was not a position natural 
to her. Apart from her voice, her bearing, what concierge 
ever had filbert nails like that ? Yes, Roland wished he 
were not going out of Mirabel with the prospect of never 
seeing its guardian again. 

So he chatted unrestrainedly about the little band in 
Brittany. Chiefly he dwelt upon M. de Kersaint, and 
manifested astonishment when he learnt that his hostess 
did not know of the heroic part that gentleman had played 
in the great Austrian defeat at Rivoli two and a half years 
ago. 

You forget. Monsieur Roland,” observed Valentine, 
smiling, ” that I do not live in Royalist circles. But I 
think I do remember hearing at the time that one of the 
Austrian columns was commanded by a French emigre, 
but I never learnt his name.” 

” It was M. de Kersaint. He has the cross of Maria 
Theresa for it.” 

” Indeed ! I am afraid the Directory would give him a 
very different decoration if they had him in their hands.” 

” They are not likely to have him there,” asserted Roland 
confidently. ” But I remember hearing M. de Brencourt 
say that Massena in particular — ^not to speak of General 
Bonaparte ” 

” Vfliom did you say ? ” asked Valentine, struck. 

” General Massena. He came up during the night, 


HIS DEPARTURE THENCE 


137 

you know, to Joubert's assistance, Bonaparte being of 

course in supreme command ” 

Y^, yes,"' interrupted the Duchesse again, less inter- 
ested in the battle of Rivoh (on which this young man 
seemed to be an expert) than in something else. “ I mean 
— ^what name — ^whom did you say you overheard ? . . 
M. de Brencourt ? 

Roland nodded. ** The Comte de Brencourt is M. de 
KersainUs second-in-command. He said that Massena 
was furious 

** Tell me, what is he like, this M. de Brencourt ? ** 

Roland, surprised, described him. “ Why, do you know 
him, Madame ? '' 

** It cannot be the same,'' said Valentine hastily. I did 
not mean to interrupt you. Monsieur de Celigny. Go on, 
pray, with what you were teUing me about M. de Kersaint 
and Rivoli." 

But she did not listen. Pictures were floating in her 
head of her stay at Spa in 1787, of her first meeting at that 
fashionable resort with the Comte de Brencourt, whose 
admiration had almost amounted to persecution, who had 
threatened once to shoot himself because of her coldness, 
and who had followed her against her bidding to her 
country house. 

It was the same man, of course. Dimly she heard about 
Lucien and Artamene and the Abbe," of the disbanding, 
of greater plans for the future, and it was not for some 
moments that she came back entirely to her room and her 
attractive refugee, and found that the young man, leaning 
shghtly forward in the big chair, was asking her a question. 

" Do you not think, Madame de Vidal, that you might 
add to your never-to-be-forgotten kindness by telhng me 
in your turn, something about yourself ? You — pardon 
me — ^you are no concierge ! You are as gently bom as 
II" 

You think so ? Well, the world has been upside down 
these ten years, has it not ? Ten years ago — you were 
old enough then to give a thought to the future — ^you 
would not have expected to grow up a house-breaker. 
Monsieur Roland ! " 

But from the way he looked at her then she could almost 
see his young and romantic mind working, and probably 


138 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


making up wild stories about her. She decided to present 
him with one ready-made, and not so far from the truth. 

“Yes,” she said quietly, “ it is useless to deny that I am 
gently bom, but I tmst that my employer, the Deputy 
who has charge of the chateau, is not aware of the fact. 
For him I am the aunt of his cousin, Mme Tessier. My 
late husband, an 6migr^, died abroad, and I was obliged 
to earn my living, hke many a better woman. I used 
to earn it by needlework ; now I do so by looking after 
Mirabel. There you have my history in the proverbial 
nutshell. And now” — she glanced at the httle clock on 
the shelf, “it is nearly time to start for the AUee des 
Soupirs.” 

The colour leapt into Roland's face. “ You have been 
so divinely kind, Madame, that I dare ask one more kind- 
ness. Something — ^the merest trifle — as a memento of 
what indeed I shall need no memento to keep in hfelong 
memory ! ” 

It was a long time since young men had asked Valentine 
de Trelan for souvenirs. That they had asked in vain was 
neither here nor there. 

“ But, my child,” she responded with a maternal air, “ I 
have nothing to give you . . . unless you would like a 
thimble or a pair of scissors ! ” 

“ I should like anything,” said the petitioner humbly. 

“ I suppose,” said she, rising, “ that what you would 
like best would be some of this semi-mythical treasure. — 
Roland I ” she said, struck by a sudden thought, “ promise 
me that you will not come back after it when you are better ! 
Promise me 1 ” 

The boy had flushed with pleasure at the sound of his 
unprefixed name. “ Alas, the treasure will probably be 
gone before I am well enough for that, Madame. The 
Marquis de Kersaint will send somebody — ^but not one of 
us. He said it was work for an older and wiser head, and 
I suppose he was right. I suspect he will send M. de 
Brencourt, if he can spare him.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Valentine, and was silent all at once. 

“ But,” went on the youth, unregarding, “ if I am to 
promise not to return, Madame de Vidal, you must give 
me a remembrance of you to take away with me. Other- 


HIS DEPARTURE THENCE 


139 

“ I think you are threatening me/* observed Valentine, 
recovering herself. For my part I can ill spare my 
thirnble, but if it will prevent your climbing that wall 
again — Stay, I believe I have something after all.” 

And going into the outer room she came back with the 
locket she had found in the work table in her boudoir. 

If you care for this. Monsieur de Celigny,'* she said, 
“ you are welcome to it. It has no value. It was mine as 
a girl, before my marriage.** 

But she need not have said that, for the V, which alone 
stood out clearly among the twisted pearls and garnets of 
the monogram, he could easily take for ” Vidal.’* Getting 
with some difficulty to his feet the young man reverently 
received the trinket, looked at it, and having kissed it 
slipped the worn chain about his neck. Mme de Trelan 
brought some garments from the bed. 

It is really time to go, mon enfant. You will need all 
your courage for the journey. Here is your hat ; I 
brought it in aiterwards from the guardianship of the 
statue ; and you must put on this cloak, for it is raining 
hard. All the better, for rain drowns noises — though I 
hope there is no one to hear in any case. Now, you must 
lean on me hard, for I am very strong.** 

It was indeed raining from a hght spring sky 
which somehow concealed a moon. On the hmes of the 
AUee des Soupirs, when they got there, the drops pattered 
heavily. The journey had been slow and trying, but at 
last they reached the door. Roland, panting, leant 
against the wall while Valentine opened it. 

It was lucky that she had oiled bolts and hinges, for 
even then it protested as she pulled at it. The last ivy 
tendril gave. Mme de Troian went through and heard 
an unseen horse blow out its nostrils and a bit jingle, and 
then saw two dim forms waiting in the lane. One of them 
touched her on the shoulder. 

** He is there ? ” asked an educated man’s voice. 

Just inside,** she answered. Be quick, for he can 
scarcely stand.” 

The two men went through the door, and in a moment 
Roland came out between them, stumbling a little but not 
so spent that he did not try to stop as he passed her. His 
supporters very properly would have none of this, but she 


140 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


heard the boy’s low, broken words of gratitude and farewell 
before the three had vanished in the shadows. 

She turned to go in. And then the same man’s form 
loomed through the darkness again. 

** This is for your inestimable services, and your dis- 
cretion, my good woman,” he whispered. “You can guess 
whence it comes.” And, seizing one of her hands in the 
obscurity, he thrust something into it and closed her fingers 
round the gift. 

Very shortly afterwards the Duchesse de Trelan stood 
alone in the rain under the wet limes of the AUee des 
Soupirs in her park of Mirabel. Her arm was lightened of 
the burden she had supported down the avenue, but her 
heart, although it knew a great relief, beat to an odd little 
ache that was almost regret. And she stood there between 
tears and laughter, because of what she held in her hand 
as an exchange for Roland de Celigny — a considerable 
bundle of assignats. 


CHAPTER X 

THE knight’s move 
(I) 

May had given place to June before Valentine de Trelan 
had quite got accustomed to the departure of the handsome 
boy whose presence had been such an anxiety and ytv 
such a pleasure to her. The five thousand francs which 
she had in his place — not nearly so large a sum as it appeared 
owing to the enormous depreciation of paper money under 
the incapable rule of the Five Kings — she had at first 
thought of returning to his relatives by Suzon Tessier. 
But Suzon, by pretending to wish for her own sake to 
avoid further intercourse with that house, had persuaded 
the Duchesse to keep their bounty, at least for the present. 

Since the evening when she had wept under her hus- 
band’s portrait Valentine had never again felt any dis- 
position to tears. Reaction had come after that outburst. 
If Gaston were alive — and she could not rid herself of the 
conviction that he was — it was difficult not to draw the 
conclusion that he was indifferent to her fate. Seven 
yeais, and no sign ! Then she told herself again, as she had 
so often done, that her letters had never reached him, 
that he had not the slightest reason for supposing her to be 
still in life, since everybody of her world who had survived 
the tempest believed her murdered, that she had no evid- 
ence of his not having made enquiries after her, or unsuc- 
cessful effo ts to find her. Only of a successful effort 
would she have heard. But none of these reasoned con- 
siderations could remove the sting of that long silence. 

Yet, if Gaston were suddenly to appear before her, would 
she be able to greet him with that unconcern which she 
had almost persuaded her elf that she felt — and that she 
ought to feel ? She knew she would not. Down in the 
depths of her soul all the time was the emotion which had 
pierced her in the picture-gallery — the intense longing to 

141 


142 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


see him again. It was Mirabel which had first made her 
conscious of this longing, and it was Mirabel which had 
insensibly fed it. And there were times when she cursed 
the impulse which had brought her here, for under the 
crust of indifference which she had hoped was forming 
over her heart she could feel the stirring of that desire, 
growing daily not less strong, but stronger. 

And then one day it occurred to her that if this Chouan 
chief of Roland de C 41 igny's spoke of writing to the Due 
de Trelan about the treasure he must know, or think he 
knew, Gaston’s whereabouts. More, if he were to send 
someone to Mirabel after the hoard, as Roland had appeared 
to think certain, she might communicate at least with 
this self-styled kinsman of her husband’s by his emissary, 
whoever he were. Yes, even if he were the Comte de 
Brencourt ; for although that mad passion of his must 
be many times dead after all these years — and, perhaps, 
just because of its death — ^he would surely bear a letter 
for her back to Brittany . . . even as Roland might have 
done, had she thought of it in time. 

This idea grew in her to an impatience for the coming 
of the next treasure-seeker. But June went on, and he 
did not come. Paris celebrated (with insufficient enthusi- 
asm to please the Government) the obsequies of the envoys 
murdered at Rastadt ; commerce continued to dechne, 
discontent and lethargy to become more marked, and 
Repubhean feelings suffered outrage at the first perform- 
ancvS of the opera of Adrien, wherein the stage emperor 
made his entry with undue pomp. On the eighteenth came 
a minor revolution, the coup d'etat of the 30th Prairial, 
with a consequent change of ministry. Valentine heard 
of it with calm, and June shd presently into July. 

(2) 

Among the few sightseers who passed the sentry on 
the 20th of Messidor, a visiting day, was one who, though 
M. Thibault was too much engrossed in conversation to 
observe it, never entered the chateau at all, but strolled 
round to the garden front. There was nothing to prevent 
this, though it was hardly ever done. The really remark- 
able fact about this enterprising visitor was that he did 
not reappear again at leaving time ; but this also 


THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 


143 

passed without remark. Yet he had not vanished into 
space ; he was seated, when twilight came, in that 
very grotto of Latona whose spring had refreshed Roland, 
waiting with some impatience for completer darkness. 
He had already seen as much of the garden front of Mirabel 
as he wished — a window on the ground-floor with a badly- 
broken shutter. 

Problems connected with the recruiting and organisation 
of Finist^re had kept the Comte de Brencourt longer in 
Brittany than the Marquis de Kersaint had bargained for, 
but he was here at last on his mission. Since a detail of 
the ancient plan had proved susceptible of two interpre- 
tations, he hoped to-night to make a preliminary search ; 
after which he would arrange his plan of campaign with 
the Royalist agents in Paris with whom he was in touch. 

More than the question of his difficult enterprise, how- 
ever, was occupying M. de Brencourt’s mind as he sat in 
that fantastic relic of the dead and gone world of which 
he also was a survival!. It was impossible to be at Mirabel, 
even for the first time in his life, without thinking of Mme 
de Troian, and, as his refuge darkened, he found himself 
thinking of little else, and of the extraordinary chance 
which had thrown her tragic and sacred shadow across 
his path again. On the windings of that chance Artus 
de Brencourt, while he waited, had time to meditate 
profoundly, and sitting there in the July twilight, his chin 
on his hand, staring at the arbutus which almost blocked 
the entrance to the grotto, he was asking himself two 
questions. Why had the Marquis de Kersaint, that kins- 
man of th« Due de Tr^an's, ceased, after that night at 
Hennebont, to wear his emerdd signet ring ; and why had 
that ring borne, as he then distinctly saw for the first 
time, the phoenix of the Saint-Chamans ? For M. de 
Kersaint had stated that he was a connection of that house 
by marriage only. That he was a connection seemed 
obvious from the minute instructions he had been able to 
give M. de Brencourt on the topography of Mirabel. This 
business of the ring intrigued the Comte not a little. 
He was quite conversant with the device of the great 
house of Trelan, and over the troop of strange surmises 
bom of the presence of that device on M. de Kersaint's 
finger and its abrupt disappearance he was stiU frowning 


144 the yellow poppy 

when the time came for him to make his stealthy entrance 
into Mirabel. 

For all that she had half looked for his arrival, it was 
chance, of a kind, that directed the Duchesse de Troian’s 
steps that evening towards the invader ; chance that caused 
her to have left the special key in the door of the portrait 
gallery ; chance that made her set out, somewhat un- 
necessarily, to fetch it before she retired for the night — 
and chance that led her returning footsteps through the 
great dark spaces of the Salle Verte ... to hear, as she 
passed along between the pillars and the wall, a slight 
muffled noise of tapping — coming whence ? 

Valentine stopped dead, lamp in hand. The gentle 
and recurrent sound did not come from the banqueting 
hall itself, that was plain. From the sallette,” then ? 

No more than when she had searched the garden for a 
possible malefactor and found Roland did she dream of 
danger to herself, though had she paused to think of it 
she might have guessed that the intruder would be armed, 
and, if surprised, might use his weapon. She walked back 
and softly opened the door of the sallette ; her surmise 
was right. 

Her own lamp cast in its beams, but there was light 
there already — a lantern standing on the floor, making a 
pool of radiance by the feet of a man who stood in front 
of the great hearth with his back to her. In this pool, 
pinned down by the lantern, was an outspread sheet of 
paper, a plan of some sort. Her eyes were able to take 
in these details before the man, turning quickly, saw her 
standing there with her lamp. His one hand went to his 
breast, doubtless in search of a weapon, but he never 
produced it, and the tool which he held in the other fell 
clattering to the floor. 

“ God in Heaven ! ” he exclaimed sharply, and recoiled 
a step or two. 

“ '^o is it ? asked Valentine a httle uncertainly. 

Is it — ^is it Monsieur de Brencourt ? ** 

The intruder did not answer — did not even seem to 
hear her question. He remained hterally as if turned to 
stone, his eyes burning cavemously in his pale face, on 
which the upcast light of the lantern at his feet, crossing 


THE KNIGHT’S MOVE 


145 


with that of Valentine’s lamp, cast odd shadows. After 
a moment, moving like a man half stunned from a fall, he 
came a little towards her. Then he stopped again, and 
passed his hand over his eyes. 

“ That light dazzles me . . . you are not real ! ” he 
muttered. Stooping, he picked up his own lantern, and 
held it high in a hand that shook. 

Is it really Madame de Tr41an ? ” he asked huskily. 

Was it untrue then . . . September ... La Force ? 
— Speak, Duchesse, for God’s sake ! ” 

In the matter of astonishment Valentine had the advan- 
tage of him, since she had been led to think his coming 
possible. But she too was shaken by the encounter, the 
first with anyone of her own world who had known her, 
for seven long years. And she found herself unable to do 
more than give a sort of pale acquiescence to his agitated 
questions by bending her head and saying, '‘Yes, it was 
untrue.” 

” It is she ! ” said de Brencourt to himself, his harsh 
features showing his profound emotion. Suddenly he 
lowered his lantern. “ Give me your lamp, Duchesse, and 
sit down and tell me — tell me, unless I am to take leave 
of my senses, how it comes about . . . where you have 
been all these years . . . what you are doing now ? My 
God, to think — Permit me ! ” 

He deposited his own lantern on the floor and took the 
lamp from her unresisting grasp, looking round the 
plundered sallette in vain for something to put it on. 

“ Give me back the lamp. Monsieur le Comte,” said 
Valentine, finding speech. ” We cannot talk here. Let 
us go to my room. It is safer also.” 

“You have a room here ? ” he exclaimed. “You are 

. . .” For the first time he seemed to become aware 
of her attire, so difierent from anything which he had ever 
seen her wear. 

She held out her hand for the lamp. “ Come,” she said, 

unless your business here ” She indicated the tool 

and the map. 

“ Oh, that can wait now ! ” said the treasure-hunter 
with an accent of scorn. He picked up the chisel and the 
plan and followed her. 

So, beneath the cavernous half-seen gilding of the great 

K 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


146 

Salle Verte, down the basement stairs and along the bare 
prison-like corridor below, carrying the lamp, went the 
Duchesse de Trelan in her respectable black dress and fichu, 
and behind her walked, still half stupefied, the man who 
had once made such persistent and unavailing love to her. 
And it was in this guise, very exactly that of a thief in the 
night, that the Comte de Brencourt came for the first time 
to her house of Mirabel. 

The thought penetrated his stupor with some force 
during the transit. For, once arrived at Valentine's little 
parlour, as she put down the lamp on the table he said 
abruptly : 

“ I have never been in Mirabel in my life. And I find 
you here to greet me I ” He gave a sudden laugh. 

Valentine did not answer. She was much more moved 
than she wished to betray. She sat down in a chair near 
the table and motioned to him to do the same. But he 
put his hands on the table and remained leaning over it, 
staring at her with a half-wild eagerness. 

** Are you alive, Duchesse ? Or am I dead, too ? 

The Duchesse is not alive," responded Valentine with 
a faint smile. “ You are speaking to Madame Vidal, the 
concierge of Mirabel." 

" Good God ! " exclaimed the Comte de Brencourt, 
springing upright. 

" How else do you suppose I could be here ? " 

" You are jesting ! " cried he, still incredulous. You 
. . . you ... a concierge ! Does no one know you ? 
Then you are poor — ^in want ! Madame, Madame ! . . ." 

Valentine lifted a hand. " Please, Monsieur de Brencourt, 
do not agitate yourself ! I am not in want. There is 
no one left at Mirabel to recognise me — my portrait had 
a pike put through it. I came of my own free will, and I 
am not unhappy here." 

At this, as if it were the most stunning news of all, he 
did, perhaps unconsciously, subside into a chair, and, 
leaning his elbows on the table, took his head between 
his hands. 

“ Tell me what happened ? " he said after a moment. 
And Mme de Troian told him, shortly, the history of those 
seven years. 

" Everybody thinks that I was killed," she finished. 


THE KNIGHT^S MOVE 


147 


I thought so” said he without moving. ” I thought 
so. . . . God pity me, I have carried that picture of your 
death about with me all these years. Oh, why did you 
not let me into the secret ? 

She looked at him with a sort of maternal regret, a 
kinder look indeed, had he but met it, than he had ever 
won from her during all the period of his fruitless passion. 
“ In the beginning I could tell no one, lest I should endanger 
the Tessiers. I disappeared, Comte, without exactly 
intending it. In the end I was glad to disappear. No 
one but Mme Tessier knows to this hour of my identity ; 
I do not mean anyone to know. Believe me, I have not 
been unhappy with these good friends of mine. After 
being twice so near death, to see the sky and the green leaves 
in the spring, to know affection, as I have known it, and 
faithfulness. . . . But I am sorry if I have caused you so 
long a pain. ... I had no news of you — for all I knew 
you had gone the same road." 

" I nearly did — in another way," said the Comte briefly, 
raising his head. He drew a deep breath and gazed at 
her anew. " Do you know, Duchesse, that this is like 
— No, I cannot yet grasp that this is you, Valentine de 
Trelan, not only ^ve, but in this mean room, this bourgeois 
dress " 

She interrupted him with a warning. " Comte, this 
mean room of mine is not too safe a shelter for you ! 
And how did you get into Mirabel ? " 

Plainly this subject had ceased to interest him for the 
moment, yet he answered that it were better for her not 
to know, adding, " But you do not ask me why you found 
me where you did ? " 

" No," said Valentine composedly. " I know why you 
broke in. You are come, are you not, on behalf of the 
Marquis de Kersaint, to secure the treasure supposed to 
have been hidden in the chateau during the time of the 
Fronde ? " 

Again M. de Brencourt stared at her. " Are you a 
witch, Madame, or has some Royalist agent " 

" Neither," said she smiling. " It is no mystery how 
I know. You have been preceded in your quest here. 
Monsieur de Brencourt. Let me tell you of the doings of 
a very rash young man." 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


148 

And astonished, annoyed, but half envious in the end 
(for had she not nursed the boy for four days) the Comte 
de Brencourt listened. But Valentine had to hear some 
very trenchant comments on her prot^^’s insane pro- 
ceedings — so her hearer characterised them. 

“ And where is the treasure really supposed to be ? 
she asked. 

“ As far as can be made out,'* said her guest, behind 
the great hearth, under that curious sort of gallery, in the 
room where you found me. — Duchesse, I should perhaps 
ask your permission for my work there ; indeed, should I 
find anything, what right have I to take it ? ” 

“ The right of conquest," answered Valentine. " But, 
as for my permission, if I thought that withholding it 
would keep you from going on with your search, I 
believe I would withhold it. You risk your life. 
Monsieur de Brencourt — or at least your liberty. Is it 
worth it ? " 

His look said as plainly as speech, " So you do care a 
little for my life — even for my liberty," but what he 
replied was, " The King’s cause in Finistere is in desperate 
need of money." 

" And your leader is determined to secure it," finished 
Valentine. She went on, " Who is this Marquis de Ker- 
saint who . . . who sent you ? " It was not the way in 
which she had meant to end the sentence. 

Her question had rung in the Comte de Brencourt ’s 
own head pretty often of late. If he could have answered 
it . . . 

" M. de Kersaint, Madame, as his ardent admirer, young 
de Celigny, will probably have told you, is the emigre who 
commanded that forlorn hope of an Austrian column at 
Rivoli. He had been in Imperial service, I believe, for 
some years, but left it at Campoformio. Monseigneur le 
Comte d ’Artois and his councfi offered him the post of 
organising Finistere, where he will, if all goes well, be the 
general commanding for the King this summer. I was 
assigned to him as his second-in-command and came 
over to Brittany with him in January. I know no more 
of his personal history than that — except that all his 
family, so I understand, perished in the massacres." 

There was a little pause, and Valentine, with an effort. 


THE KNIGHT’S MOVE 


149 

said, " I hear that in addition he calls himself a kinsman of 
. . . my husband’s.” 

The Comte made her a little bow. ” He does claim that 
honour.” 

The blood mounted to Mme de Trelan’s cheek, but she 
took no notice of his tone, somewhat at variance with the 
phrase he used. 

” I do not remember ever having heard his name.” 

M. de Brencourt was silent. 

” But,” she went on, ” as his kinship is . . . quite 
possible ... I shall ask you. Monsieur de Brencourt, 
to do me a favour.” 

” A favour ! You have only to ask, Duchesse.” But 
he bit his lip ; for he feared what the request might be. 

“There is,” said Valentine, looking down, “a cetain 
family matter on which I should be glad of informa ion. 
It is possible that M. de Kersaint can supply this. I v\ill, 
therefore, write him a letter, and ask you to be good en . i gh 
to convey it to him when you return, Comte. Will vcu 
do this for me ? ” 

“ Any least service that I can render you, Madame ” 

said the Comte, but rather formally this time. His brain 
was still dazed with shock, but it was beginning to wake 
to other activities, and he suddenly saw with immense 
distaste a picture of himself delivering a letter from this 
woman, loved and mourned and now given back to life, 
into the hand of the man who wore the crest of the house 
of Trelan, who knew Mirabel so well, who had been so 
agitated at the mention of her death. . . . 

“ But do not, Duchesse,” he continued hastily, “ do 
not give me the letter till I have finished or all but finished 
my quest, for, should I have the mischance to be taken 
with it on me, you will involve yourself — involve us all,” 
he added, guessing that any threat of danger to herself 
alone would probably go unregarded. 

Valentine bent her head. “Yes, I understand. And I 
thank you, Comte. How long will your investigations 
take you, do you think ? ” 

“It is the getting the gold away that will be the diffi- 
culty,” replied the adventurer. “ When I have satis- 
factorily located it I shall concert measures with an agent 
in Paris. See, Madame, here is a copy of the original 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


150 

plan. But I fear it will not mean much to you, for steps 
have been taken to render it unintelligible to anybody else.” 

He spoke truth, for of the scrawl now under her eyes 
Valentine could make nothing. Yet she kept her gaze 
long on it, making up her mind to do a thing she shrank 
from, with this man of all others, and that was, to bring 
her husband’s name into the conversation once more. 
For the Comte had been with this “ kinsman ” ; he might 
even conceivably have heard something himself. 

“ Did I understand,” she began, her head still bent over 
the plan, ” that M. de Kersaint communicated with my . . . 
with the Due de Trelan before undertaking this search ? 
M. de Celigny said something about such a project.” 

” No,” repUed M. de Brencourt sharply. ” No, there is 
nothing of M. de Trelan in this. M. de Kersaint soon 
abandoned that idea. He had to dispense with his kins- 
man’s authorisation.” 

He could not, perhaps, get into touch with the Due ? ” 
suggested Valentine faintly. Oh, how she hated this ! 
Yet he might hold some clue. 

” No,” said the Comte again. He judged it to be 
impracticable, after all.” 

” The Due is no longer in England, perhaps ? ” pursued 
Valentine, in torture at having to show him that she 
herself did not know. 

“No, Madame, not in England, nor ” 

He stopped abruptly. As a man who is fording a 
river may come unexpectedly on a deep and eddying 
current that threatens his balance, so did Artus de Bren- 
court find himself losing foothold in the wholly unlooked for 
temptation which suddenly assailed him. Could it be 
blamed, the lie which should rid this beloved lady of the 
ghost of that worthless husband who had left her to this, 
the husband who in effect had been dead to her for years 
— and who probably really was dead by this time ? For 
those suspicions as to de Kersaint’s identity were absurd. . . 

And though it was unpremeditated, nothing could have 
served him better than his hesitation. The Duchesse’s 
eyes were on him. 

“ Do not be afraid to speak. Monsieur de Brencourt,” 
she said, slowly turning ashy pale. “ If you mean that 
the Due is dead — ^tell me so 1 ” 


THE KNIGHrS MOVE 


151 

How could he resist the statement, put into his very 
mouth hke that ? Once again those arguments flashed 
past him : nothing had been heard of de Trelan for years, 
the Marquis had not communicated with him — and as for 
those surmises about de Kersaint himself, which till this 
moment he had done nothing but encourage, he mentally 
stamped on them. Then, taking a long breath, he let 
himself be sucked down, dizzy but open-eyed, into the 
torrent. 

** Madame ... I regret to be so fatal a messenger,*' 
was all he said, and bent his head. 

At least he would not look at her to see how his arrow 
had sped. He heard her catch her breath, heard her rise 
from her place opposite him at the table and go away. 
Glancing up, after a moment, he saw her on the edge of 
the circle of lamplight, leaning against the high shuttered 
window, her hands over her face. 

Now, after the stroke he had dealt her, it were the part 
of a gentleman to leave her. Even though her husband 
were nothing to her now, there was shock in the news. 
De Brencourt was very conscious of it, but the circum- 
stances were exceptional, for he stood in peril of never 
seeing her again. And now, perhaps, after these wasted, 
imhappy years she would listen to him. 

He got up and went towards her, but something in her 
attitude or in his own soul restrained him from speaking 
to her just then. He paused, stood looking desperately 
at her stricken figure for a moment, then, going back to his 
former place at the table, buried his face in his arms. 

After a httle he heard her voice say, falteringly, from 
where she was : 

" Do you know any details. Monsieur le Comte — ^any 
place . . . when it was ? ” 

He raised his head but did not look at her. "No,** he 
said slowly, gripping his hands together before him on 
the table. " M. de Kersaint said no more than this, that 
it was useless to write to the Due de Troian, because he 
had just heard that he was dead — ^had been dead . . . 
some time.** 

When, at the repetition of that word " dead ** he heard 
her catch her breath again, he felt as though he were 


152 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


bludgeoning her. But no — ^it was only a surgical opera- 
tion . . . and better so for her. The man he was murder- 
ing was dead already. And it was too late to go back now. 

“ I do not know how M. de Kersaint was aware of this/* 
he went on. ** He keeps his own counsel always. But 
that is what he said, Madame. I ... I ... .” He 
tried to add some formal words of sympathy, but that 
falsehood would not come, and he remained staring before 
him. 

** But I must know more ! ’* said the Duchesse to herself 
in a quick, breathless voice. He will know, this M. de 
Kersaint, this kinsman. Oh, I must write to him at once 
— before you go, even, Comte ! *’ She put her hand to her 
head. “ Where — how shall I address the letter ? ’* 

He saw that he must give a direction that would never 
find its destination. How unexpectedly dark and tortuous 
it was beginning to be, this path ! Suddenly realising 
that he was seated while she was standing he got up, and 
for the first time since the utterance of his lie, looked her 
in the face for a second. But he could not bear the sight, 
and it was with downcast gaze that he responded, 

“ It will be better for me to take the letter myself, 
Madame.” 

” But I cannot wait ...” she answered faintly, so 
faintly that he saw she was on the point of swooning. 
He sprang round the table to her, and catching her in his 
arms held her a second or two. The scarf had fallen from 
her hair, and her head, grey and golden, rested against 
his shoulder. Her eyes were shut, but he did not think 
she had quite lost consciousness, or the kiss, reverent as 
it was, which he put on that pathetic hair might have 
found another goal, for his heart was beating furiously. 
Then he lowered her into a chair, looked round for water, 
and, seeing a pitcher and a cup, poured some out with 
shaking hands and held it to her hps. 

He was right ; the Duchesse had not lost consciousness 
entirely. She drank some water, contrived to thank him, 
and put her head back against the chair. 

** Are you better ? Are you better ? ’* he got out. 
(” Brute, brute, brute ! ** he said to himself. But he was 
not repentant.) 

** You were right to tell me ... I asked you,** said she 


THE KNIGHT'S MOVE 


153 

almost inaudibly. A little colour was creeping back to 
her face. 

He waited a moment, gave her the cup again, gently 
took one hand when she had finished, and gently rubbed it. 
“ And now that I have told you — Valentine, my only 
love, I have been faithful to your memory all these years 
— ^now that I have told you, you will let me take you 
away from this dreadful place, this intolerable existence, 
for ever. Valentine . . . Valentine ...” 

He was at her feet now, clutching at the hand he had 
been chafing, breathless, almost sobbing in the extremity 
of his pleading : 

” Valentine, I implore you ! It breaks my heart to see 
you here ! Come with me ; be my wife ! let us take what 
remains to us in this sorry world ! And if I speak so soon, 
when my hand has just dealt you this blow, it is because 
the time is so short, as you know. Indeed, I would not 
press you for an answer now, even after all these years, 
but that we are in the midst of perils. Say you forgive 
my importunity — and say you will come with me ! ” 

She gently withdrew her hand. 

Comte,” she said with an effort, ”!...! thank you, 
but it could not be. I am an old woman now ... I 
thank you, I thank you indeed for your faithfulness, but 
I could not.” 

At least then, let me take you away as a brother might ! 
You cannot remain here — ^it is impossible to leave you to 
this ! ” 

” You will have enough to do,” said she, with a tremor 
of the lips, ” to get your gold away without encumbering 
yourself . . . with a sister.” 

Curse the gold ! ” answered the Comte de Brencourt. 

No, after all, it brought me here.” 

He had got to his feet and stood looking down at her, 
his eyes kindling. Then he made a great effort over 
himself, and, stooping, took her hand and kissed it as he 
might have done amid the gaieties where first he 
met her. 

“ To-morrow night I will come again for an answer, 
Duchesse. I will leave you now ; I have given you, I 
know, a very great shock. And I regret ...” Again the 
words stuck. ” You must forgive me. . . And, lest you 


154 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


should be anxious, I will not return to the sallette to-night. 
Indeed, I think it must be getting near dawn." 

" I have given you my answer. Monsieur de Brencourt," 
repeated Valentine. There were black rings under her 
eyes. " Believe me, I do appreciate your devotion. If I 
could accept, I would." 

" I cannot take that answer," said Artus de Brencourt 
gravely. " But I will take an assurance that when you 
have duly mourned the man to whom you have been so 
nobly faithful . . . that then, even if I have to wait a 
year, two years " 

" I can give you no hope," she said once more. 

"You do not love me, Madame, that I have always 
known. But all I ask is the right to be spent in your 
service." 

‘‘ I had rather, Comte, that you were spent in a 
worthier." 

He made a gesture. " There exists no worthier," he 
said with quiet conviction, and bowing, went towards the 
door. 

But at the door he paused. " One thing more, Duchesse. 
Since I would sooner die a thousand deaths than implicate 
you in this attempt of M. de Kersaint's, I wish to say that 
should any mischance happen to me within these walls, 
you may be well assured that I shall give no sign of ever 
having seen you before. And you, Duchesse — ^for your 
own sake, not for mine — ^will do the same by me, will you 
not ? Promise me that ! " 

Half by gesture, for speech was getting beyond her, she 
promised. 

" I have the honour to take leave of you," said the Comte 
de Brencourt, and he went out. 

There was night in Mirabel — cold night and loneliness. 


CHAPTER XI 

CHECK TO THE KNIGHT 

It is doubtful if the Comte de Brencourt realised how his 
false tidings about her husband would sweep out of Mme 
de Trelan’s head almost all thought of himself, his proximity 
and his enterprise ; and quite certain that he would not 
have been pleased had he known where she spent the greater 
part of the following morning. For she had deliberately 
gone up to a part of the chateau which she had not yet 
entered, a part shut to visitors — ^the Due’s private apart- 
ments. 

Stripped, dusty, neglected, they were yet the rooms which 
Gaston had inhabited, and she wandered there too miser- 
able, too self-reproachful even for weeping. Mort ! the 
word with its hollow vowel seemed to go echoing through 
the emptiness that had once been so different. No chance 
now of reconciliation ; no chance of that ultimate meeting 
somewhere, somehow, to the hope of which, in spite of 
herself, she knew at last that she had been desperately 
chnging — ^which had even, perhaps unknown to her, been 
the determining factor in her acceptance of the post at 
Mirabel. Whatever unsubstantial edifice she had been 
rearing was all in ruins now, and neither in pride and 
resentment, nor in the love that forgives everything, could 
they meet again on earth. 

Now she knew the truth : she had always loved him, 
she always would. And since, in its own surroundings, 

. there was not a single possession of his remaining, she went 
to the Galerie de Psyche, and, under the paintings of that 
wife of fable who also lost her mate, she knelt down by 
Gaston’s beautiful escritoire, and bowing her head upon it, 
kissed the place on the tortoiseshell where his hand had 
used to rest. He was dead — so what did it matter that he 
had long ceased to love her ? He was dead ; he was hers 
now ; she could love for both. 

155 


156 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


It was neither a cleaning nor a visiting day, and Valen- 
tine could not be too thankful that, with these tidings fresh 
upon her heart, she would not be obliged to act just yet the 
intolerable part she had so hghtly taken up. But, to her 
utter dismay, she heard, about two o’clock in the afternoon, 
voices on the steps leading down to her room, and then the 
sound of the entrance door opening, which showed that the 
arrivals must include her master Camain, who now used the 
key he had had, it appeared, all the time. And when 
V^entine went out unwillingly into the passage she found 
him in the midst of a whole cortege of visitors, mostly 
feminine. Hanging on to his arm was a pretty, plump 
woman of about thirty-five, whom she recognised at once 
from the frequent prints of her in Paris. It was Rose 
Dufour, the actress of the Ambigu-Comique. 

A violent gust of repulsion went through the Duchesse 
de Trelan. True, she had never been able to believe 
that her husband had really admired MUe Dufour, but nine 
or ten years ago rumour had certainly finked their names 
for a space, and to see her in person to-day, of all days . . . 

“ Ha, here is our good friend, Mme Vidal ! ” said Camain, 
advancing. “ Rose, if you wish to leave your wrap in her 

care ” And without waiting for permission he removed 

from the nymph's very scantily attired shoulders a hand- 
some pelisse of violet satin edged with ermine. 

“ Good God, Camain, do you want me to die of cold 
in your old tomb of a chateau ! ” exclaimed she, snatching 
at it. 

“ Well, it is true that you will not be suffocated without 
it. You might almost as well have nothing on,” observed 
her admirer frankly, looking at her transparent white 
muslin gown of classic cut, worn slightly damp, according 
to the insane fashion of the day, to make it cling. Even 
Mile Dufour's arms were bare to the shoulder, for the 
actress was not of those who had to endure the accusation 
launched at the wearers of sleeves, that they feared to 
show those members. And her mythological garb, slit 
for a considerable distance up the side, revealed the 
golden fastenings of the buskin clambering half-way up 
her leg, where a gilded acorn clasped them. For that 
reason, presumably, she was not wearing, like one of her 
companions, a jewelled thong around her ankle. But 


CHECK TO THE KNIGHT 


157 


upon her fair coiffure — probably a wig, for which the rage 
wp extreme — ^rose a confection of lilac crepe, adorned 
with two rows of pearls and surmounted by a rose and a 
pansy. 

Valentine had turned her back, pretending to be busy. 
For nothing on earth would she touch any of that creature’s 
belongings ! However, the dispute about the pelisse 
resolved itself into the lady’s decreeing that her swain 
should carry it over his arm, lest she should wish to resume 
it, and presently the whole party, laughing and talking, 
swept up the stairway to the ground floor. Mme de Trelan, 
conscious of jangled nerves, would fain have stayed behind, 
but Camain insisted on her accompanying them, as was 
indeed her duty. He did not present her to his mistress, 
but his affability stopped short only of that mark of 
distinction. 

In the great Salle Verte, for which they presently made, 
he acted showman, while many remarks were passed on its 
size and decorations, and surmises made as to what scenes 
(“ orgies,” one of the male members of the party termed 
them) had occurred in it. 

” And there is an inner room, somewhat curious,” said 
the Deputy. ” It was designed, I believe, to be a sort of 
retreat for the prince — since the chateau, as I daresay 
you know, was originally built for King Francois I. It is 
worth looking at, Mesdames.” So the company obediently 
followed him along the Salle Verte. 

Valentine was conscious of a violent wish that they 
should not enter the sallette. Till this moment she had 
been too much absorbed in the thought of her dead husband 
to give much consideration to the Comte de Brencourt 
and his doings. Now, although she knew that he had 
not attacked the masonry, and although he would surely 
not be so rash as to attempt anything in daylight, she 
had a premonition of disaster. But Camain waved his 
hand towards the door, and there was nothing for it but 
to open it. 

However, to Mme de Trelan’s great relief — for she 
had somehow, against her better sense, expected to see de 
Brencourt standing where she had found him last night 
— the sallette was empty. And the company were called 
on by the Deputy to admire the cheminee royale, with its 


158 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


carving of Apollo and Daphne, and its n5nnph and pipe- 
pla3dng satyr on either side, but some of the ladies, unversed 
in mythological lore, despite their present attire, were 
intrigued by the main subject, and among these was the 
Citoyenne Dufour. 

“ What on earth is happening to that woman, Camain ? 
she demanded. “ Her arms are sprouting at the ends. 
And who is the man ? ” 

“ That, ma belle, responded her admirer, '' is the 
nymph Daphne, turning into a laurel to escape the atten- 
tions of the god Apollo — a pretty prudery not likely, I 
fancy, to find many imitators in these days, eh, ladies ? ” 

Violent protests from the ladies of the party. 

Oh, oh. Citizen Deputy, you have left some fleur-de- 
lys on the wall ! ” observed one of them. “ Is that to be 
on the safe side — in case a Bourbon should return ? 

Fleur-de-lys ? Nonsense ! ” returned M. Camain, 
putting up his spy-glass to look at the poor scorched rem- 
nant of tapestry hanging there. Those things you see 
round that bit of border are . . . humming-birds, heraldic 
humming-birds ! ” 

Much laughter greeted this sally. “ And what is this 
queer long beast over the hearth ? demanded another 
voice. 

" With a crown on its head, too ! Oh fie ! ** 

** It is not, at any rate,'* said one of the two youngish 
men of the party, in the extraordinary lisp cultivated by 
the would-be fashionable, “ the strange fowl to whose nest 
some one has set fire just as she was going to lay, which 
we saw in the Salle Verte ! " 

So it went on, the flow of humour ; and after visiting 
most of the apartments on the first floor, where M. Camain 
tripped badly as an expositor of the story of Psyche, and 
where Valentine's own apartments, though arousing 
much interest, were voted horribly old-fashioned in 
decoration, they came to the second, to the door of the 
locked gallery with the china and portraits. Mme de 
Trelan had hoped that she might have been spared that 
— for how should she look upon that portrait in primrose 
satin to-day ? — and sick at heart as never before, she had 
contrived to trail behind. She heard Camain's voice 
explaining what was in the room while he waited for her 


CHECK TO THE KNIGHT 


159 


to unlock the door. Then she realised that the key, being 
a special one, was not on the concierge's bunch, and that 
she had in consequence forgotten to bring it with her. 
She came forward and said so. “ But I wiU go and fetch 
it instantly. Monsieur le Depute." 

Do, pray, — though I regret to put you to the trouble,'* 
said her employer. " Meanwhile, ladies, come out on 

to this balcony, and you will see " 

Valentine hastened down the nearest stairs. Better 
to get it over as soon as possible, the visit to that room, 
for it had to be gone through with, and she had no one 
but herself to thank for that fact. 

She had come down a minor staircase which deposited 
her at some distance from her own quarters, and having 
arrived on the basement floor she began to run, for she 
was still as light-footed as a girl, and she had a constitu- 
tional dislike, for all her upbringing, to keeping people 
waiting. And thus, round a corner, she almost collided 
with a man hastening in the opposite direction. A second 
of stupefaction, and she saw that it was the Comte de 
Brencourt. 

What ! " she stammered out. " M. le Comte — ^what 
madness ! Camain is here himself ! " 

I know I " returned he rather breathlessly. “ They 
are after me — ^never mind what happened — a folly of 
my own. I am trying to get as far away from your rooms 
as possible.” 

” But for God’s sake go back there ! ” said the Duchesse, 
seizing hold of his arm, and aU but pushing him. ”Go 
to my room — ^you will be safe there. They will not go in ! ” 
” Never ! ” he exclaimed. ” The last thing I should 
do — compromise you in this affair ! ” And breaking 
away from her he disappeared without another word, 
and was out of sight or hearing before she could even 
think of some spot in which he could hide. And since 
her quick wit told her that any delay in returning with the 
key might lead to Camain himself descending to investigate, 
she ran on to her little parlour, snatched it up and set off 
again with all haste. Terrible though it was to leave the 
Comte to his fate, or at least to his own devices — for she 
heard no sounds of pursuit yet — ^it was out of her power 
to help him now. 


i6o 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


From what she caught, as she returned to the little 
group of persons on the second floor, it seemed that Camain 
had been singing her praises in her absence. 

*‘I am afraid that you have hurried, Madame Vidal,’' 
he said in a tone of concern as he took the key from her. 
She was indeed very obviously out of breath. You 
should not have done so. These ladies seized the oppor- 
tunity of taking a breath of air on the balcony, and having 
a peep from there at the park, which they tell me I ought 
to keep in better order." 

" Indeed, Monsieur le Depute," put in one of the critics 
in an affected voice, " you ought to be scolded ! It 
seems, as far as one can judge from up here, to be in the 
state of the tangled wood which surrounded the castle of 
the Sleeping Beauty." She pulled her gauze scarf about 
her with a stiU more affected air, acquired with a good 
deal of pains above her husband’s shop, and the five blue 
feathers in her turban quivered. 

"Now that remark, Madame Constant," said the 
Deputy, stooping and fitting the key into the lock, " gives 
me an opening, does it not, for a pretty speech about the 
Sleeping Beauty herself ? However, Mme Vidal doesn’t 
hke pretty speeches, so I won’t make it." He opened the 
door, invited the ladies to enter, and after casting upon 
Valentine a glance which could only be described as ogling, 
followed the bevy, who had already fluttered in with 
exclamations — two of them also casting glances of another 
nature upon the concierge as they passed. 

Mme de Trelan, every sense on the alert, remained 
outside. Dared she run down the stairs again, and 
could she do any good if she did ? She had not long to 
hesitate, for in an instant Camain’s voice was heard sum- 
moning her within, and she obeyed, anxiety as to what 
was going forward downstairs swallowing for the moment 
every other feeling. 

"You might show these gentlemen the pictures, Madame 
Vidal," said her master, looking up from his favourite 
Sevres. And as the three men of the party attached 
themselves to her, the Duchesse began to move slowly 
along the line of Trelans, starting as far as possible from 
her husband’s portrait. She heard, before beginning 
her own unwilling exposition, Camain saying, “ You 


CHECK TO THE KNIGHT 


i6i 


see this plate, ladies ; I believe it was one of a service 
painted for the late Duchesse on her marriage/* And 
she guessed to what he was directing the attention of 
those fair and envious vulgarians, to the plate of green 
Sevres with the alternate medallions of cherubs on clouds, 
baskets of flowers, and green wreaths, round the rim whose 
extreme edge was of dark blue hatched with gold. 

That must be the poor woman's monogram in the 
middle, then,” said one of them, and Valentine knew 
that she was looking at the gold T in the centre, inter- 
twined with a V of roses and forget-me-nots, and sur- 
mounted by a coronet. ” T for Trelan, of course — I 
wonder what the V stood for ? ” 

” I don’t know,” said Camain. ** Victoire or Victorine, 
I expect. Do you know. Mademoiselle Dufour ? ” 

” Why on earth should I ? ” asked Rose Dufour in- 
differently. ” Let me look at it, Georges — I’ll take it 
in my own hands, thanks . . . Great God, how clumsy 
you are ! ” For the sound of a smash told that the late 
Duchesse de Trelan's plate now existed only in fragments. 

Through the ensuing recriminations between the Deputy 
and his innamorata, and the expressions of concern from 
everybody else in the room, including her own three pro- 
spective picture-gazers, Valentine's ears were strained to 
catch other sounds. And as she still did not hear them 
she began to entertain a faint hope. The chateau was so 
large that a man might lead his pursuers a good dance 
and elude them in the end. Unfortunately M. de Bren- 
court was not familiar with its topography. 

If you say you dropped it because you were carrying 
my pelisse I'll take the pelisse myself ! ” Mile Dufour's 
voice emerged again, sounding less good-humoured than 
usual. “ No, I’m not going to carry it on my arm — 
Heaven forbid. You can put it on my shoulders, only 
don’t drop it also — ^Bon Dieu, what’s that ? ” 

For a loud knock had come at the door, which stood 
ajar — a knock that sounded to Valentine like the summons 
of Fate. Moving a trifle, she was able to see the soldier 
outside, whose approaching footfalls the recent scene 
had drowned. A sensitive lady gave a little scream. 

” Who’s there ? ” asked Camain, the violet satin held 
above Mile Dufour’s bare shoulders. ** Excuse me, ma 
mie ! ” He dropped the cloak upon its destination without 


L 


i 62 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


much ceremony, and strode to the door, where the National 
Guard was seen to salute and to say something in a low 
voice. 

Tut, tut ! ’* said the Deputy. ** Well, I suppose 
I had better come down and ask him a few questions.” 

” What is it, Georges ? ” asked the Dufour, who had 
glided to the door after him, the ermine shpping half off 
her shoulders. 

” The guard have captured a man who has just made an 
entrance into the building, and they would like me to have 
a look at him before marching him off.” 

” How interesting ! ” cried the actress. ” What a 
coup de theatre ! Do not go down to him, Georges I 
Let them bring him up here ! This might have been 
arranged for us. What was he doing ? ” 

Nobody could answer that question but Valentine, and 
she only in part. Camain hesitated a moment, but only 
a moment. ” Very well,” he said. ” Tell them to bring 
him up here,” he added to the National Guard. 

A hot flame of indignation ran over the Duchesse. The 
Comte de Brencourt, a gentleman, was then to be made a 
show for the passing curiosity of a courtesan and her 
friends ! But what had he been about, in daylight too ? 
The same question no doubt was exercising the Deputy, 
for he turned round, his look seeking her out ; and, being 
half a head taller than any one else in the room, he easily 
found her. 

” Here is a pretty find to be made on your domain, 
Madame Vidal ! ” he said. The voice sounded jocular, but she 
was not sure of the genuineness of that jocularity. She was 
saved the necessity of a reply by a remark from one of the 
ladies, winged by a malicious side-glance at her, the shabby, 
middle-aged caretaker ; ” Perhaps it is the Prince come 
after the Sleeping Beauty ! ” 

Half ashamed, the men sniggered too. Valentine*s 
anger, lit in spite of her contempt, served usefully to 
steady her. ” It is more likely, Monsieur le Depute,” 
she said coldly, ” that he has come after something in this 
room — there are valuables here, are there not ? ” 

” At the moment, most certainly ! ” cut in one of the 
youngish men, bowing with a fatuous air in the direction 
of Rose and the others. 


CHECK TO THE KNIGHT 


163 

But in the daytime ! said Camain musingly. His 
eyes strayed to the jasper cup. TU have the room made 
surer.'’ 

And I shall beg leave to give up the key,” said Valen- 
tine, her head high. Anything to foster the idea of ordinary 
theft. 

” I shall not ask you — ^ — •” Camain was beginning, when 
the tramp of feet in the corridor interrupted him. ” Ah, 
here is our adventurer. Yes, bring him in, men.” 

If the Comte de Brencourt felt the indignity of his 
position, he did not show it. His chief preoccupation, 
Valentine could not but feel, was to avoid looking at her. 
He had not been secured without a struggle, that was 
evident, for there was a cut on his forehead, and his neck- 
cloth was wrenched half off. His arms were bound to his 
sides by a pipe-clayed cross-belt. Valentine could not 
keep her eyes off him, but the Comte himself looked no- 
where but at Camain. And Camain, advancing a little, 
studied him for a moment, his hands behind his back, his 
rather prominent blue eyes suddenly grown searching. 

” Your report, corpori ? ” he said abruptly, still running 
his gaze over the captive. 

The National Guard related a story to which no one in 
the room listened more fixedly than the concierge of Mirabel : 
how the sentry — apparently neither Gregoire nor Jacques 
— ^happening to look round at the chateau not very long 
after the entry of the Deputy and his party, had seen a 
man getting in at one of the ground-floor windows, how 
he had summoned the guard and they, selecting the same 
window, as the quickest mode of entrance, had at last run 
the intruder to earth on the basement floor and, after a 
lively resistance, captured him. 

“ Very smart work, corporal,” said the Deputy, ” But 
that window — ^what window was it ? ” 

” We found ourselves when we got in. Citizen Deputy, 
in that room they call the ‘ sallette,’ ” 

” The sallette ! ” echoed Camain in surprise, and Valen- 
tine suppressed an exclamation. How nearly right her 
presentiments had been, then ! But to enter by the window, 
in broad daylight, in view of the sentry ; it sounded crazy ! 

” And what had he in his pockets ? ” went on the 
Deputy. 


164 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


These small tools, Citizen Deputy, a handkerchief, 
and a case with assignats ; we have not counted them yet." 

(He must have had time to get rid of the plan, then.) 

" Well, my fine fellow, and what have you to say for 
yourself ? " The words were careless, but the tone was 
so different from anything which Mme de Trelaji had yet 
heard him use, that, for the first time, she realised how 
Georges Camain might have been a Terrorist. 

To this the prisoner was understood to mutter, in a 
strong patois, that he hoped the citizen would not be too 
severe on a poor man, that the times were bitter hard — • 
no work, no food — and he had thought he might light on 
something or other in Mirabel that nobody would miss . . . 

His dishevelled appearance, the blood trickling down one 
cheek, and a certain amount of dirt that M. de Brencourt 
had somehow accumulated, went really a good way to 
obliterate the marks of race. Perhaps he would succeed 
in carrying it off that he was a common thief. The Deputy 
seemed inclined to believe it. 

" I rather think, my man," he said, with a smile which 
had in it nothing of amiable, " that you have known the 
inside of a gaol already, from the look of you. However, 
we shall hear all about that later. You had better take 
him to the guard-house for the present," he remarked to 
the corporal, " and make arrangements for having him 
conveyed to Paris." 

By the end of this little speech Valentine had realised 
where the captive’s eyes, which had already removed them- 
selves from his inquisitor's, were now fixed — on the portrait 
of her husband as a young man which faced him all the 
while. 


CHAPTER XII 

THE rook’s move I CHECK TO THE ROOK 

If, owing to the slackness of the once fire-eating Gregoire 
and his superior, Roland’s apparition in the gardens of 
Mirabel had produced but little stir in official quarters, it 
was not so with the actual capture of a delinquent made 
within the chateau, and practically under the eyes of the 
Deputy himself. For two days Mirabel was turned inside 
out, and Camain, the outwardly easy-going, piqued by this 
daring intrusion, superintended much of the search in 
person. What the soldiers and police agents expected to 
find appeared doubtful ; and indeed there was actually 
little for them to discover, since, already aware of the 
strangely open method of ingress selected by the invader, 
they paid no attention to the broken shutter at the back 
of Mirabel which had originally admitted him. The one 
genuine discovery which they made intrigued them a good 
deal — the lantern lying in the colonnade not far from the 
windows of the sallette — for why should a man want 
a lantern in the daytime ? 

It puzzled Valentine also when she came to hear of it ; 
but, after thought, she came to the conclusion that the 
lantern was, for her at least, the key to the whole mystery 
of the Comte’s arrest — as indeed it was. She recalled 
that he had had a lantern when she found him in the 
sallette that evening ; on searching her memory was fairly 
sure that he had not brought it with him to her room, and 
supposed that next morning, suddenly remembering having 
left it where its presence, if discovered, might prove very 
awkward for him — or for her — ^he had gone, at a most 
unfortunate moment, to retrieve it, had nearly been trapped 
in the sallette by the advent of Camain and his party, and 
in desperation had climbed with it through the window, 
trusting to the colonnading outside to hide him. But on 

165 


i66 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


returning, after an interval, by the same way, he had had 
the ill-luck to be seen. For all she knew, that had been 
the road by which he had originally entered Mirabel. 

It was not until a day or two had elapsed that Valentine 
realised how fortunate for her was the fact that M. de Bren- 
court had been found breaking in, apparently for the first 
time, during the presence of visitors. It occurred to no one 
that it was not his first invasion, and had there been com- 
phcity on the part of the concierge it was plain that he 
would never have chosen such a time. That M. Camain 
himself entertained no suspicions of her was proved by the 
frankness with which, coming daily during this period of 
turmoil, he kept his subordinate posted up in the course 
of events. 

The authorities can make nothing of the man,” he 
admitted in her little room, on the third morning. ” They 
cannot even discover his name. But, chiefly because he 
turned out to have too large a sum of money on him for 
a common malefactor, he has been clapped into the Temple, 
on the chance of his being a political offender.” 

” Political 1 ” ejaculated Valentine. ” What political 
object could be served by breaking in here ! ” 

” I confess I cannot imagine,” responded the adminis- 
trator. ” But the Royalists are up to all sorts of games. 
If he had been better-looking, now, one might have put 
forward a theory that he was the Due de Trelan himself, 
come back to have a peep at the place ... as you once 
suggested to me that he might, Madame Vidal ! ” He 
laughed, as at something equally preposterous and amusing, 
but all the colour went from Valentine’s face. That 
surmise, made in utter and desperate jest as it had been, 
could never know fulfilment now ! 

” But,” went on the Deputy, unobservant, ” I am relieved 
to find that there is no question of the Minister of Pohee 
wanting to confront you with this man, as I was afraid, 
at one point, that there might be. It is possible, however, 
that he may require some sworn statement of conditions 
here, a deposition, in short, such as one makes before a 
notary. And I also should be glad of it for the sake of my 
reputation, for though this man was fortunately seen and 
captured at once, you will imagine, Madame, that I am 
not pleased to learn about that other marauder who escaped 


THE ROOK'S MOVE : CHECK TO THE ROOK 167 

from the garden a while ago, though that has been kept 
very quiet — ^too quiet, in fact. Will you believe, Madame 
Vidal, that I was only a few days ago informed of that 
episode ? ” 

Valentine stared at him, disconcerted. But I thought 
you knew of that. Monsieur le Depute ! ” 

Naturally. I ought to have known of it. Well, there 
is a more zeious sergeant at the poste de garde now, and 
there will henceforth be a sentry on duty here all night. 
So I hope that your peace will not be molested again. 
Now, Madame, if you will kindly give me writing materials. 

. . . Thank you. Be seated, pray. I shall ask you to 
give me an account of the early part of that day ? " 

But there is nothing to give an account of," said the 
Duchesse. If he had asked for the preceding evening ! 

" So much the better,” returned Camain, trying the nib 
of the quill on his finger-nail. " Still, you can tell me 
how the day was parsed, from your rising in the morning ; 
and what, if anything, you observed of unusual. I take 
it, of course, that you had not seen this man lurking about 
the place before ? " 

" No, of course not," lied Valentine gallantly. After 
all, it was not for herself. But she was glad she had not 
to meet his eye, as he glanced up for a second. 

" I was sure of that," said he, beginning to write. " Now, 
although I am not a notary, we will observe the forms. . . 

‘ Je soussignee. . . .' What is your baptismal name, 
Madame Vidal ? " 

Hastily Mme de Trelan put forward the least aristocratic 
sounding of her names. " Marie," she answered. 

" * Marie,' " repeated the scribe, in somewhat lingering 
tones. " ‘ Marie.' ' I, the undersigned, Marie Vidal.' 
Widow, of course ? " 

" Yes," said Valentine rather faintly, for the question 
stabbed her. The Deputy looked up, and she had an 
impression that he was going to ask her how long she had 
been a widow, . and that she would be mesmerised into 
answering that she did not know, that it was just what she 
was seeking to know. . . . But he did not ; he settled 
to business instead — ^and was very business-like too. 
Valentine had to account for every hour of that morning, 
and as she really had no right in the Due's apartments she 


i68 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


did not find it too easy. When it was finished, and she 
had signed, he thanked her, and looking at his watch left 
somewhat precipitately. 

Valentine came back rather thoughtful from accompany- 
ing him to the door, which she always conceived it her duty 
to do. He was kind ; she did not like deceiving him — 
though indeed she had no hand in this enterprise of the 
Comte de Brencourt's any more than in Roland de Celigny’s. 
All she was doing was to hold her tongue about the Comte’s 
identity, and to wish him well out of the Temple. His 
sudden capture, however, had profoundly affected her 
own affairs, for he could not now be the bearer of her 
intended letter to the Marquis de Kersaint, nor — since 
he had left her that night without giving her his leader’s 
address — could she send it by any other means. 

Unless, indeed, she thought, standing by the high barred 
window and looking out, she were to discover M. de Ker- 
saint’s whereabouts by communication with Roland de 
Celigny, if he were still with his cousins. No, to approach 
Roland might be very inauspicious for him just at this 
juncture ; moreover, she must hope, for his own sake, 
that he had left Paris by now. She must wait a little ; 
and, after all, the initial shock was over. Gaston was 
dead, and details of the how and when of his death 
could not help him to life again. She hoped he had not 
died in poverty. She could not bear that thought. . . . 

Nor could she bear, just now, the consciousness that 
M. Georges Camain was beginning to look upon her with 
an eye more beaming than that of an employer. Even 
his consideration, for which she had been grateful, was 
coming to displease her, for surely it exceeded what was 
due to a concierge. Not being born to that estate she 
could not feel certain about this, but she did know that 
a demeanour in the Deputy which even as Mme 
Vidal she disliked, as the Due de Trelan’s widow she 
abhorred. 

And she was troubled next day, when M. Camain appeared 
again, in a shirt of fine batiste fastened with a golden 
butterfly, bearing a bunch of roses in his hand. He laid 
them down on the table. 

I am happy to tell you, Madame Vidal, that the deposi- 


THE ROOK’S MOVE : CHECK TO THE ROOK 169 

tion was quite sufficient. You will not be molested in 
any way.” 

” Really, Citizen Deputy, I am most grateful to you,” 
said the Duchesse — and meant it. 

” You are more than welcome,” returned her benefactor 
with a bow. ” It is a pleasure to serve you in anything. 
Besides, I look upon you as a colleague in the preservation 
of Mirabel.” 

It was weU said, if, again, an unusual sentiment. 
However, the look which followed its enunciation gave 
Valentine a sudden presentiment that his next words were 
going to be less well chosen, and she became acutely 
conscious of the red roses on the table. But at that very 
moment the door burst abruptly open, and Louise, with a 
bucket of water and a mop tied up in a cloth, clanged into 
the little room. 

” Oh, I beg your pardon, Madame Vidal, I thought you 
were upstairs, and I was going to wash the . . Oh, 
Monsieur le Depute ! ” She was struck speechless. 

” I will go,” said Georges Camain at once. ” No, remain, 
my good woman, and do your work.” Her he did not 
address as colleague. 

” Pray, Monsieur le Depute — — ” began the Duchesse, 
for form’s sake, though in reality she could have embraced 
that bucket-bearing form. 

” No, no,” said he quite good-humouredly. ” I would 
not for the world interfere with your wise dispositions. Do 
not come to the door, I beg.” 

He disappeared, only just avoiding a second bucket which 
Louise had left outside in the passage, and Valentine 
turned away to hide a smile, but not because of the bucket, 
for that anyone should fall over such an object was not 
a form of humorous incident that appealed to her. Her 
mirth, however, was of a very fleeting nature, since the 
situation had elements which did not amuse her at all. 

” Look what beautiful flowers M. le Depute has brought, 
Madame ! ” said Louise, suddenly seeing them. ” He 
doubtless brought them for you. A very affable gentleman, 
M. Camain ! ” 

Mme de Trelan glanced at the roses, still lying on the 
table. Impossible to tell, since the bearer had been so 
hastily routed, whether they were intended for her or no. 


170 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


On the whole she feared they were. Then the idea of 
another destination occurred to her. The affable gentle- 
man was probably on his way to Mile Dufour. 

“You can take them away with you when you go, 
Louise,” she said, indifferently. “ M. le Depute must 
have forgotten them. But it is a pity that they should 
be wast^.” 

“ But surely Madame will keep them ? ” 

“ I dislike the scent of roses,” was Madame’s quite 
curt reply. 

But Rose — the Rose — ^she had made up her mind about 
that ornament of the theatre. There could never have 
been anything between her and Gaston, fastidious as 
he had been to his finger-tips. Mile Dufour had not enough 
mind even to have amused him. But there was such a 
thing as claiming for lover a man who had on one occasion, 
or perhaps two, paid a woman some slight, half careless 
attention, especially when that man’s admiration was 
in itself a distinction. The Duchesse de Trelan had 
known it done in far higher circles than those in which 
Mile Dufour moved. Something fold her that in 1790 
the actress had employed that useful method of self-ad- 
vertisement, and who was there then — or ever — to gainsay 
its truth ? To-day that man’s wife, having seen the 
claimant, felt with every instinct that the claim was false. 
But she did not detest Rose much the less. 


(2) 

Camain did not come again for several days. The little 
sprite which dwelt in Mme de Trelan’s brain, even in the 
cloud of sorrow and remorse, suggested that he was trying 
to find out and avoid a day when minor “ colleagues ” 
might come charging into her room. And luck served 
him, for he arrived one beautiful afternoon when she was 
quite alone. But he seemed in a very business-like mood, 
and while he apologised for interrupting her sewing, he 
told her the reason for his visit ; he was thinking of having 
the garden put in better order, though, as he said, the 
ridiculous sum which the Directory placed at his disposal 
would not admit of much being done. 

“ But I know very httle about gardens,” he concluded 


THE ROOK’S MOVE : CHECK TO THE ROOK 171 

“ Now, a woman’s taste . . . Will you come out with me 
and give me the benefit of your advice, Madame 
Vidal ? ” 

“ But, Monsieur le Depute,” objected Valentine, ” I 
am not a Len6tre. It is gardening on a grand scale here 
— landscape gardening. I suppose, however, that you 
could begin by putting the Italian garden in the front 
a little in order. Shall I come out there with you ? ” 

M. Camain shook his head. ” I should prefer to do 
something to the wilderness at the back— for a wilderness 
it is fast becoming. You would be doing Mirabel a real 
service if you would come out there with me now.” 

Valentine had to acknowledge to herself that, assuming 
his sudden anxiety about the garden to be genuine, this 
was certainly true. And the state of the park had long 
afflicted her. Nevertheless she went unwillingly. 

But the Deputy’s business-like mood continued, and 
from the great terrace at the top the two took a general 
survey of the rioting vegetation. Nodding spires of 
foxgloves pierced it now, and the stately candles of the 
mulleins were lit, while round the rose-trees, turned 
once more to briars, the bindweed stretched her strangling 
arms, and trumpeted her victories from a thousand mouths. 
And arbour after arbour was nothing but a mantle of the 
white stars of the wild clematis. 

Into this jungle the administrator and the concierge 
of Mirabel descended after a little, and pushed their way 
along the paths, discussing the pruning and lopping of 
laurel and aibor vitae, and the possibility of re-shaping 
the yews that once had been ships or peacocks. But it 
seemed very hopeless. 

” Indeed, I can hardly wonder that that marauder 
escaped the other day,” commented M. Camain, standing 
at the top of a flight of steps not very far from the scene 
of the invader’s mishap. “It would need an army to 
make any impression on this. I almost think that you are 
right, Madame Vidal, and that, with the meagre means at 
my disposal, I shall have at present to content myself with 
the front garden.” 

” There is only one saving clause,” he remarked suddenly 
over his shoulder as he led the way back, ” and that is, 
that to put order into this tangle would destroy its char. 


172 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


acter of the Sleeping Beauty’s enchanted forest, on which 
Mme Constant remarked so aptly the other day.” 

Valentine, annoyed, bit her lip and, answering nothing, 
followed him at a slackening pace. But M. Georges 
Camain, having arrived at a seat in the bosquet through 
which they were passing, turned round and waited for 
her. 

” Shall we sit down a moment after our walk ? ” he 
suggested. 

It was a curved stone seat which the honeysuckle had 
so invaded as to leave little room. But one end was still 
clear. On this the Duchesse unwillingly sat down, and 
her employer did the same. 

” It only occurred to me the other day,” he began in a 
conversational tone, looking at her profile, ” that I might 
in some sort claim relationship with you, Madame 
Vidal.” 

” Indeed, Citizen Deputy ! How is that ? ” 

” Well, as I have the happiness to call Mme Tessier 
cousin, it appears to me that, since you are akin to her, 
I might have the even greater happiness of thinking of 
you as ” 

” As your aunt, were you going to say. Citizen ? ” 
interrupted Mme de Trelan with a gleam. ” But I am 
afraid that I cannot aspire to that honour. It is only by 
marriage that I am related to Suzon.” 

” I fear you are mocking me, Madame,” said Camain 
in a tone of relish. ” You must be weU aware that I do 
not conceive of you as my aunt.” His hand was creeping 
towards her along the back of the seat, over the tangled 
honeysuckle. 

” I am nearly forty-five years old. Monsieur le Depute,” 
said Valentine in a very repressive voice. ” Old enough 
to be a grandmother.” She rose. ” Now, if you will 
excuse me, I must be getting back to my work.” 

” But that is just what I do not wish you to do, Madame 
Vidal,” interposed Camain, getting to his feet with even 
greater alacrity. ” Oblige me by sitting down a moment, 
and by listening to what I have to say.” 

As his not inconsiderable bulk blocked the only egress 
from the seat there was nothing for it but to comply, and 
this, after a momentary hesitation, Mme de Trelan did. 


THE ROOK’S MOVE : CHECK TO THE ROOK 173 

“ You must by this time,” began Camain, clearing his 
throat, “have become aware, Madame, of my profound 
admiration for you.” 

“ I know that you have shown me great consideration. 
Citizen,” responded Valentine, “ and I assure you that 
it has been appreciated.” 

“It would be impossible for me to do too much to show 
my regard for you,” said the Deputy earnestly. “ Your 
talents, Madame, your character, your gifts of heart and 
brain — you must forgive me if I point out (what you must 
surely know) that they are thrown away upon your present 
situation.” 

“ Is that a kind way of intimating. Monsieur le Depute, 
that you wish me to resign it ? ” enquired Valentine, 
immensely relieved at the goal towards which, after all, 
the conversation appeared to be making. 

“You have hit the nail on the head,” replied M. Camain 
with a peculiar smile. “ I do wish you to resign this post, 
so unworthy of your sensibilities and your education. I 
wish to remove you, with your consent, to another, which 
I dare to flatter myself wiU be less unworthy of you.” 

Mme de Trelan looked at him mutely. 

“ All this, Madame,” pursued the Deputy, waving his 
hand to include not only the garden but the chateau itself, 
“ all this, over which you exercise so wise a regency, is but 
a dead kingdom. You are but the guardian of a cenotaph. 
But imagine yourself,” he went on, warming to his trope, 
“ imagine yourself ruling with a real authority where aU is, 
on the contrary, alive, where every subject is your — I 
should say, every wish is your subject, every project laid 
at your feet for approval, every ” 

But Valentine broke in rather ruthlessly by saying, “ I 
cannot imagine to what kingdom you refer. Monsieur 
Camain.” 

“You do not divine ? ” said he, and the smile became 
more marked. “ You must guess — ’tis your adorable 
woman’s modesty which dictates that reluctance ! Madame 
. . . Marie . . . the kingdom which I invite you to enter 
— ah no, not to enter, for you are already enthroned there, 
but to sway absolutely — is at your feet this moment, is, in 
short, this heart ! ” finished M. Camain, transferring him- 
self very neatly from the bench beside her to one bended 


174 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


knee, and clasping both hands to the neighbourhood of 
the organ he had named. 

Valentine surveyed him there on the gravel with stupe- 
faction and a spice of malicious amusement. 

" Am I to understand. Monsieur le Depute, that you 
are good enough to offer me the post recently occupied by 
MUe^Dufour ? " 

Her suitor reddened. “ Good God, no, Madame ! I 
must have expressed myself but ill if I gave you to suppose 
that ! No, Mile Dufour and I have parted. It is my 
hand, in aU respect and honesty, of which I have the 
honour to ask your acceptance.” 

“ In short,” said the Duchesse, unable to resist, vous 
allez vous ranger. Please get up. Citizen. I am very 
much honoured by your offer, but it is impossible for me 
to accept it.” 

Her wooer kept his countenance very weU. Possibly 
he had expected this refusal, as a further manifestation of 
the modesty to which he had alluded. He did get up, 
and, dusting the traces of the greenish gravel off the knees 
of his small-clothes, stood before her, rather a fine figure of 
a man, who probably carried off better than most the 
ridiculous red toga d V antique which the members of the 
Conseil des Anciens had to wear at their assemblies. 

” I am too sudden, perhaps, Madame ? ” he enquired, 
his head on one side. ” I recognise and bow to your 
superior delicacy. A flower should never be plucked in a 
hurry. And yet, the encouragement I have received ” 

” Encouragement, Monsieur ? ” exclaimed the Duchesse. 

Whence did you derive that ? ” 

The Deputy made her a bow. ** You have been — 
unintentionally, no doubt — kinder than you knew.” 

” Do you mean to say that I — 1 — ^gave you encourage- 
ment, Monsieur ? ” All the Duchesse de Trelan was in 
the astonishment of that emphasized pronoun. 

” Not openly, Madame, I admit — but in a way you 
were unconscious of.” 

” Most certainly I was unconscious of it ! ” said Valen- 
tine, in a tone of the strongest indignation. ” Your 
imagination. Monsieur le D6put^, runs away with you ! ” 

” Madame, I only used my eyes,” pleaded Camain, un- 
deterred by her displeasure — seeming, indeed, rather to 


THE ROOK'S MOVE : CHECK TO THE ROOK 175 

enjoy it. And he sat down again on the seat. “ You 
would not, naturally, be aware of it, chere Madame. 
But cast your mind back a week — to the day of the arrest. 
It was on that day that I first received hope. ... I see 
you do not believe me. Must I convince you then ? " 

“ You cannot. Monsieur." 

Camain bent nearer. " Do you challenge me ? Ah, 
Madame Marie, but you will be angry with me ! It was, 
then — you remember that day. Mile Dufour was with me — 
it was the way you looked ... in which I saw you 
looking . . . the hostile way, in short, in which you looked 
at poor Rose." 

" Rose . . . the way I looked . . . you think — is it 
possible that you imagine. Monsieur Camain, that I was 
jealous of your mistress ? " A white and royal anger 
possessed the Duchesse, and she got up from the stone 
bench more like a queen than a concierge. 

" I knew you would be angry," said Camain plaintively, 
gazing up at her. " But as I live, I saw you looking at 
her once or twice in a manner which seemed to me to admit 
of only one explanation." 

Mme de Trdan gasped. She had no words before a 
supposition so monstrous. What had begun by resembling 
farce had turned to something else. Here, in her own 
garden, to be subjected to the insolent fatuity of this 
man of no breeding ! And Rose Dufour, of all women. . . . 

"It is impossible for me to remain at Mirabel to be 
insulted. Monsieur Camain," she said very haughtily. 
" WiU you kindly relieve me of my charge here, and 
replace me as soon as you can ? I should prefer to leave 
to-morrow." 

M. Camain stooped and picked up his cameo-headed 
cane. With this, rising, he poked the ground for a few 
seconds. 

" I am obliged by the terms of my appointment, Madame 
Vidal," he said at the end of them, " to receive notice of 
resignation in writing." 

" Then you shall have it in writing at once," returned 
she. " If you will kindly let me pass " 

He stood aside. " Send it by post, Madame, to-morrow, 
if you are still of the same mind. Though why my most 
respectful admiration should be construed " 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


176 

** That is enough. Monsieur,” said Mme de Trelan as she 
might have spoken to a disobedient servant, and walked 
straight past him out of the grove. 

M. Camain, deputy for Maine-et-Loire, did not follow 
her. After a moment he reseated himself on the stone 
bench, and, crossing one blue and white striped leg over 
the other, rubbed his ankle thoughtfully. Then a sort of 
smile passed over his well-shaven face, he put a finger 
and thumb into a waistcoat pocket, and drew forth a little 
almanac, which he consulted. This done, he rose and 
sauntered towards the lower end of the park, to a certain 
little door in the outer wall which, to his knowledge, had 
not been used for years. It had, as he knew, bolts only 
on the inside, so the absence of a key need not deter him 
from leaving Mirabel by that way . . . unless indeed long 
disuse should have rusted those bolts in their sockets, or 
the ivy have bolted it in another fashion. 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE bishop’s move 

It was not until Valentine’s letter of resignation had gone 
that she realised what, in the heat of her anger, she had 
done. She had shut herself out of Mirabel for ever. To- 
morrow would probably be the last day she should ever 
spend there. Was it really only a week ago that, fresh 
from the shock of the Comte’s news, she had wondered 
how she could possibly have put herself into such a posi- 
tion ? Well, she had still more indignant reason for wonder 
at herself to-day, yet — ^she had suddenly discovered that 
she did not want to quit Mirabel. But it was too late now. 

Next afternoon a messenger brought her a letter addressed 
in Camain’s large, sprawling hand. Out of it fell a spray 
of young ivy. Mme de Trelan looked at it distastefully 
— some sentimental afterthought, no doubt, of her bour- 
geois wooer’s — and letting it lie on the table read his 
regrets at her decision to resign, his surprise at the resent- 
ment aroused by his deeply respectful addresses ” — 
and his reminder that by the terms of her appointment 
she had agreed to give thirty days’ notice of resignation, 
and that she was not therefore legally free to leave Mirabel 
till the 27th of Thermidor next. But the rejected suitor 
pledged his word that, unless obliged, he would not enter 
the chateau again during her stay, so that she might feel 
at hberty from the menace of a devotion which was evi- 
dently distasteful. And perhaps,” the letter concluded, 

* ‘ in that period the rest of this torn ivy, which you will 
no doubt recognise, may have time to grow again over the 
little door near the A116e des Soupirs.” 

The letter dropped from Valentine’s hand. Was it a 
threat — this about the door ? Could he know anything 
about Roland, from some unsuspected source, or did he 
perceive no more than that the door had recently been 
used ? But, as Roland must surely have quitted Paris 

177 


M 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


178 

by now, the sprig of ivy moved her not, and the most 
potent emotion roused by her employer's letter was prob- 
ably the last he intended — ^relief. Through that forgotten 
thirty days* warning she had a respite ; she need not 
leave Mirabel yet. She had never dreamed that she could 
be so deeply thankful. 

For she would have fuller leisure now to think of Gaston, 
whose widow she was — whose widow she had been, per- 
haps, for long enough already, even though this Chouan 
leader had only recently learnt the fact of his death. 
Yes, she had known that all along. That was why Gaston 
had never answered her letters, never sought for her. It 
was not indifference, but a gaoler far more implacable who 
had held him captive ; and the reflection that he had 
possibly been dead for years held a terrible kind of comfort 
in it. 

She was Gaston de Trelan’s widow, in Gaston*s violated 
home. And it seemed to her that these twenty-nine days 
had been given her to go over their life together, and to 
pray for him. Afterwards, when she, too, had left that 
home for ever, she would take steps to communicate with 
the Marquis de Kersaint in the hopes of hearing more. 
So, before the empty tabernacle in the cold, half-pillaged 
chapel, where in the presence of such a brilliant company 
the Archbishop of Paris had made them one, she prayed 
for him every night and morning, at hours when no one 
was hkely to summon her. Suzon was indisposed and 
could not come to see her. Camain had sworn not to come. 
And more than half the allotted respite slid by — too 
quickly. 

Mme de Trelan had not mentioned her approaching 
departure to Louise and the rest of her minions. A faint hope 
began to stir in her, as time went on, that the Deputy would 
ask her to reconsider her decision. Her anger against him 
had measurably died down ; it seemed to her now rather 
absurd that she had been so hot. The man knew no better ; 
and, had not Rose been involved in his amazing proof ** 
she might even have seen the ludicrous side of it. But 
despite her conviction about her, nothing connected with 
Mile Dufour could be to her amusing — only hateful. Yet, 
if M. Camain did ask her to stay on as concierge, how was 
she to regulate their intercourse in future ? 


THE BISHOP’S MOVE 


179 


So July went on, vidth reverses abroad and discontent 
at home, and Valentine saw now the use to which she would 
put the money, the price of Roland’s safety, for when she 
was free she would find some priest who would say Masses 
for Gaston’s soul, and she would herself go to her duties, 
as she had done now, regularly but surreptitiously, for 
years. For she felt on her own soul a deadly sin of pride ; 
and if Gaston had contracted a sacrilegious marriage before 
he died, the fault was partly hers. What were those 
few letters which she had sent compared to the more active 
steps which she ought to have taken to find him — steps 
which, now that it was too late, she could not conceive 
why she had not taken ? 

And she longed so intensely for the comfort of the 
Mass that she thought she would have asked Suzon, had 
she not been indisposed, to take her place at Mirabel for a 
night, to allow her to attend in Paris one of the churches 
where, in a half clandestine fashion, it was celebrated. 
Then she would remember that in a couple of weeks she 
would be free to do this, since — Camain having given no 
further sign — Mirabel would shortly know her no more. 
Her desire changed its goal a little then, and became a 
longing that the chapel of Mirabel itself which had 
witnessed their union might know once more the offering 
of the holy mysteries, for Gaston’s soul and for her grave 
shortcomings too, Alas, there appeared small chance of 


** I see you have got a gardener, Madame Vidal,” ob- 
served Louise one morning as she came in. “He seems 
very busy out in the front there. An oldish man for all 
that work, though.” 

She was right. Later on, when Valentine looked out, 
she did indeed descry an elderly man busy with what 
had been the flower beds in the Italian garden. Then she 
remembered that Camain, on that memorable day, had 
spoken of his intention of having the beds attended to. 
Still, one man could not accomphsh very much in so absolute 
a desolation. 

The gardener did not come near the chateau, nor did 
she take any notice of him till two days later. It happened 
to turn extremely cold for the beginning of August, and at 


i8o 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


midday, as she saw this industrious elderly person sitting 
eating on a barrow, she thought he might like to conclude 
his meal under the shelter of the colonnades, with the 
addition, perhaps, of a cup of coffee. She went up the 
steps, crossed to the bed by which he was sitting, and 
suggested it. 

Without his hat, which the gardener removed as he rose 
on her approach, his face was seen to be round and com- 
fortable. He seemed about 'fifty, hale and vigorous, with 
a twinkling eye. He thanked Mme de Trelan warmly, 
very warmly, for her kind thought, left his barrow, and 
betook himself up the great steps to the shelter of the 
colonnade, while she returned to her own quarters to make 
him some coffee. 

By the time she brought it out to him he had finished 
his meal, and was standing in front of the boarded-up door 
looking at it. He turned round, took the cup from her 
with a little bow, and said, 

“ Madame, you do more in offering me this cup of coffee 
than you know. I am thirsty, it is true, but I am even 
more thirsty for talk with you.** 

The Duchesse stared at him. He spoke with a slight 
accent, but his speech was educated. 

“ I have dug,” went on the gardener, sipping the coffee, 
for three days in the garden, and I desire presently, with 
your permission, to dig in the chateau itself.” 

“ ^^at, are you another of them ? ’* cried Valentine 
involuntarily. 

He smiled. ” Even so, Madame. And since the arrest 

of M. de Brencourt has *’ 

"You know M. de Brencourt ? ** 

" We are under the same orders.** 

" Those of this Marquis de Kersaint ? ** 

" Precisely,” said the gardener, and he now gulped 
down the coffee. 

" But,” objected the Duchesse, puzzled, " how is it 
that you confide in me so readily ? With M. de Bren- 
court ’* — " it was different,** she was going on to say, but 
stopped, realising that she was on the verge of an iniscre- 
tion. 

" Because in the first place,** said the new treasure- 
seeker," I went, on the receipt of certain information, to 


THE BISHOP’S MOVE 


i8i 


those old MM. de Celigny to whom you so cleverly restored 
their interesting young relative ; and from them — ^since 
the boy has returned to his grandfather — I learnt all that 
Roland had told them of your devotion.” 

” Roland has gone, then ? ” said she, reheved. ” He 
was well* again ? ” 

” Very nearly. The wound was not serious.” 

” And the second gentleman — ^he who was arrested, 
M. de Brencourt ? ” 

” He is still imprisoned in the Temple, but soon to leave 
it, I hope. He has found a venial guard, and . . . one 
has agents in Paris, you know, Madame. It is from them 
that I have learnt the facts about him.” 

” I hope that you may not follow him to the Temple, 
Monsieur,” said Valentine, rather troubled. 

” I hope so too,” said the newcomer composedly. ” But 
since I hold a certain position here, having — ^no matter 
how — procured the post of an accredited gardener, I 
shall set about matters quietly. I propose, therefore, to 
go on attending to my horticultural duties for a space 
before beginning my investigation.” 

Mme de Trelan studied the httle man a moment. He 
seemed an extremely unhurried plotter — either a very 
cool hand, or one who was inclined to take things too 
easily. It was impossible for her to judge. It suddenly 
came to her, however, that the means of communication 
with M. de Kersaint were restored. When she knew 
rather more about him she could ask this emissary to bear 
her letter. 

” You want me to help you. Monsieur, I suppose ? ” 
she suggested. ” But what if I have scruples — I am not 
sure that I have not ? I did not help either of the others, 
you know.” 

” I shall respect your scruples, Madame. Unless you 
carry them so far as to denounce me, I can do what is 
necessary without claiming your active assistance. All 
I shall ask is that you remark on it to no one if I transfer 
the scene of my labours, in a day or two, from the front 
garden to the park behind. And now, if you will excuse 
me,” he concluded, ” I will return to my wheelbarrow.” 

” Before you go. Monsieur, may I know your name ? ” 
asked Valentine. Then she caught herself up. ” No 


i 82 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


I think I know too many names. I would rather not hear 
it. It is better for your sake that I should know you only 
as the gardener of Mirabel.'" 

Now this abstention of the concierge’s suited M. Chassin 
admirably. Although he had never been at Mirabel (just 
as he had never seen its Duchess) it was as well that his 
name, undistinguished though it were, should not be 
whispered there. So he bowed a little and said, “ As you 
please, Madame. But possibly you know it already from 
one of the other gentlemen — from M. de Celigny, perhaps, 
if he talked to you much about M. de Kersaint, whose 
aumdnier I have the honour to be.” 

” You are a priest, then ? ” exclaimed Mme de Trelan, 
surprised. 

” Presbyter valde indignus” replied M. Chassin. 

” I had not guessed it,” said Valentine. ” Though 
indeed why should I ? — Yes, M. de Celigny did refer to 
the aumdnier, now I come to think of it, in connection 
with the plan of the treasure, but he did not mention 
the name.” 

” Then I wiU remain the aumdnier, or the gardener, 
according as you please, Madame,” said M. Chassin briskly. 

What shall I do with this cup — besides thanking you a 
thousand times for its contents ? ” 

The Duchesse took it from him. ” If you care for 
another to-morrow at the same hour, Moiisieur TAurndnier, 
it wiU be at your disposal.” 

” You are too good, Madame,” replied the priest. 
” You are sure my presence — our conversation — ^will not 
bore you ? ” There was a little twinkle in his eye. 

” On the contrary,” responded Mme de Trelan. ” I 
find all this passionately interesting. I feel that I am 
assisting at a romance. Is it not in the old fairy-tales 
that three sons of a king come after a treasure, or to slay a 
dragon, or free a princess ? — and it is always the third and 
last who succeeds.” 

” Alas, Madame,” said the third and last adventurer, 
” I am no king’s son. That description may serve for 
MM. de Celigny and de Brencourt, but my father was a 
shoemaker. I should not be worthy to free a princess. 
Besides, as I have told you, I am a priest.” 

” Moreover there are no princesses here,” added Valen- 


THE BISHOP'S MOVE 183 

tine hastily, annoyed with herself for having chosen just 
that illustration. 

Nor a dragon ? " enquired the treasure-seeker. 

** No, unless it be the Deputy or the sentry." 

" The latter, indeed, may be wondering at our conversa- 
tion now, if he can see us in here,” observed the gardener, 
and he began to move towards the steps. " By the way, 
Madame, is it true that the Deputy Camain does not come 
here much now ? I heard from ... a source of informa- 
tion . . . that his visits, at one time very frequent, have 
practically ceased of late. Is that so ? It is somewhat 
important for me to know." 

" Yes, that is quite correct," answered the Duchesse, 
and was again annoyed with herself because she felt the 
colour rising to her face. 


CHAPTER XIV 

PLOTTER AND PRIEST 
(I) 

Not until that evening did Roland’s exact words about 
the aumSnier recur to Mme de Trelan’s memory. Who 
could she have been, the dying old lady who possessed 
this mysterious document ? It was aU but clear now 
that some treasure really did exist in Mirabel ; but its 
existence, as a matter of fact, interested Mirabel’s mistress 
less than the' means by which it had come to light after aU 
these years. She had no intention of claiming the hoard. 

And more amazing than all was the fact that this third 
treasure-seeker was a priest. It seemed almost as if her 
fervent wish of the last days were on its way to be granted. 
Could she ask him to say Mass in Mirabel — would it be 
safe ? She knew nothing about him personally, but 
he could not be a man to shrink from risks, or he would not 
be employed on his present mission. He must equally 
be an insermente, one who had not sworn allegiance to the 
State, or he would never be aumonier to a Royahst division. 

The desire to feel her way towards this great question 
of a Mass at Mirabel, as well as to satisfy her curiosity 
about the plan, was the reason why next day, at the same 
time, as the Abbe-gardener was making with a handker- 
chief of provisions towards the colonnades, she went up 
the great steps and intercepted him. 

“ Your coffee is awaiting you in my room, Monsieur 
r Aumonier,” she suggested, ” if you will give yourself the 
trouble to descend thither.” 

He thanked her and followed her down, unrolled his 
comestibles, took the plate she put before him, and with 
little ado set heartily to work. Valentine placed the coffee 
pot at his elbow and herself sat down opposite him. 

“ I hope you will pardon my rustic manners, Madame,” 
he observed after a moment or two, ” but this digging 
gives a man a fine appetite.” 

184 


PLOTTER AND PRIEST 


185 

" I trust they feed you well where you lodge in the 
village, Monsieur TAbbe,'" said she in reply. ** Where 
do you lodge, by the way ? ” 

“ At the little house next the church — I beg its pardon, 
the Temple of . . . what is it the Temple of, Madame, 
Age, or Genius, or Fame, or what ? ” 

“ I have never enquired,” returned the Duchesse, with 
a shade of contempt. The Temple of Lunacy, I should 
think. — ^Who lives in that little house now ? It used to 
be . . . let me see — Nicole, the locksmith, and his family.” 

” Nicole the locksmith ? ” repeated the priest, ceasing 
to masticate. He has not lived there for seven years, 
I understand, since Mirabel was sacked.” 

Is that so ? ” asked Valentine. ” What happened to 
him ? ” 

” I do not know,” answered the Abbe. ** I only know 
the bare fact from the old man who lives there now. — 
Did you then know Mirabel-le-Ch^teau as long ago as 
that, Madame Vidal ? ” 

Yes, I have known Mirabel a long time,” said Valentine, 
after a slight hesitation. If she were going eventually 
to ask him to say a Mass here for the Due de Trelan, she 
must give him some sort of ground for making the request. 
“You have lived here before, perhaps ? ” 

“Yes,” admitted Mme de Trdan. “ How I have come 
to live here again, under such different auspices, is the 
result of circumstances with which I need not trouble 
you. But, since I knew the chateau before it changed 
owners, perhaps you will not think it strange that I should 
show curiosity as to how you came into possession of the 
plan of which M. de Celigny spoke, and of which I saw a 
copy in M. de Brencourt’s possession. M. de Celigny 
said something about an old lady who was dying, whom 
you visited. But how did she come to have this paper, 
and why did she desire to give it to . . to M. de Trdan ? ” 
M. Chassin wiped his mouth. “ It is a long story how 
it came into her possession, Madame, but a much shorter 
one why she desired it to go to its rightful owner. She 
had been tiring-woman to M. de Trelan's mother, the 
Duchesse Eleonore.” 

“ What was her name ? ” demanded Valentine, a little 
breathlessly. 


i86 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** Magny, Mile Magny/' said M. Chassin. 

Valentine got up from the table and went over toward 
the stove. The past seemed suddenly to crowd upon her 
almost suffocatingly. Behind the other ghosts in Mirabel 
she often felt the gentle spirit of the mother-in-law who 
had welcomed her with such affection, and now here was 
another shadowy inmate. Then she was aware that the 
priest was watching her out of his placid, shrewd little eyes 
with a good deal of interest, and that she must walk warily. 

You knew Mile Magny, I see ? " he remarked. 

** Yes,” said the Duchesse de Trelan. She remembered 
now her first sight of that prim, devoted attendant as it 
were yesterday. The best thing for him to suppose would 
be that they had been fellow-servants years ago. So she 
added, “ I was here for the last two years of Mile Magny 's 
service, when, as you say, she was maid to Mme la Duchesse 
Douairiere.” 

“Were you here, then, Madame, imder the Duchesse 
Valentine ? ” was the priest’s not unnatural question. 

Mme de Trelan much disHked lying, although her whole 
hfe recently might have been called a lie. She clung to 
the literal truth underlying her statement when she said, 
“ No, I never served the Duchesse Valentine.” And then, 
to turn him away from a dangerous topic, she said, “ I 
need not ask you. Monsieur I’Abbe, if you are an insermente 
priest. You must be, to hold the position which you do, 
and to have received any trust from so good a Catholic 
as Mile Magny.” 

“ No, Madame, naturally I have never taken the oath,” 
responded M. Chassin. He looked at her with fresh interest, 
and added, “You too, then, my daughter, are a good 
Cathohc in these times of persecution ? ” 

“ I was never a Catholic worth speaking of, I am afraid,” 
said Valentine rather sadly, “ until these times.” 

“ And are you able to go to your duties here, my child ? ” 
It was remarkable how the cloak of the plotter and half 
humorous observer shpped at once aside, and revealed the 
priest. 

“ Not here,” responded Mme de Trelan. “ I always did 
in Paris ; it is possible there. But there is no Mass here, 
no priest . . . O mon pere I ” 

“ mat is it ? ” 


PLOTTER AND PRIEST 


187 

" Lately — ^for a special reason — I have longed for little 
else, night and day, but that there might be Mass said 
once in the chapel here, for . . . for one who was much 
connected with Mirabel.’* 

Her deep earnestness and hardly contained emotion 
affected M. Chassin. He was a little puzzled, too. Did 
she mean Mile Magny ? If so, why did she not say so ? 
More likely, perhaps, that she was thinking of some relative 
of her own. Perhaps she was the widow of a steward 
or something of the kind, for she was far too superior to 
have been an ordinary servant. However, practical as 
usual, he saw that the point was not for whose soul — ^if she 
meant that — the Mass was to be said, but whether it could 
be said at all. 

“ Have you the necessaries still in the chapel ? ” he 
asked thoughtfully. 

“ I believe so,” answered the Duchesse. “ I could 
look. . . I know where they would be hidden. A priest 
coming like this seems ...” She broke off wistfully. 
” But there would be a certain amount of risk to you. 
Father, and so I hardly like suggesting it. Nothing but 
my very real need would make me. I ... I have heard 
news that would make it just now the greatest comfort I 
could look for in this world.” 

” My daughter,” said the Abb4, rising, ” as a priest, 
nothing could give me greater joy, in these times, than to 
hear that you desire such a thing. But, as a plotter, I 
think that I must get on a little further with my task 
before I undertake the additional risk — not much, perhaps, 
but still to be considered when I am charged with a mission 
not my own. An argument, no doubt,” he added with a 
sort of twinkle, ” against the union of the secular and the 
sacred characters in one individual. However, I will 
think over the best way to fulfil your edifying desire, if 
I can. I should begin at once, I think, by starting work 
earher than I have hitherto done, that no suspicion might 
be excited on the morning itself, for it would have, would 
it not, to be a very early Mass ? And you wish, I gather, 
a Mass of requiem ? ” 

Valentine bowed her head. She was almost too much 
stirred to thank him, and looked up with eyes full of 
tears. 


i88 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


M. Chassin was moved to give her his blessing, and on 
that departed once more to his wheelbarrow and his hoe. 

( 2 ) 

Valentine thought of little else but the priest's half 
promise all the rest of the day. Very early next morning 
she went and searched in the chapel for the gem-studded 
chalice and ciborium, hidden away with all the more 
valuable vestments early in 1792, and hidden so securely 
that if they had been looked for in the August pillage they 
had never been found. That day being a cleaning day 
she thought it better not to invite the remarks of her 
femmes de journee by having the gardener into her room 
at all. Moreover at first she thought he had not arrived ; 
till it occurred to her to look out from an upper window 
at the back of the chateau. The result of her observations 
was that she took out a bowl of coffee at noon to the grotto 
of Latona, and, going in, told him the reason. 

Much wiser, Madame,” said the priest, wiping a hot 
brow with his sleeve. ‘ ‘ And did you say that to-morrow was 
a visiting day ? Then I shall be back in the front, very 
active, for all eyes to see. I have no business to be here 
at the back at all.” 

” But you have a good reason for it ? ” suggested Mme 
de Trelan. 

The aumonier dropped his voice. ” There is a sort of 
underground passage leading from this grotto — ^which is 
of course of later construction — ^to the place under the 
cheminee royale in the sallette where Louis-Antoine de 
Trelan hid his money. Once I have unblocked the end 
of it, now hidden by those rocks, I hope to find the rest 
easy.” 

M. de Celigny did not know of that ! ” 

” The misguided youth never got more than a moment's 
sight of the plan.” 

” And M. de Brencourt ? ” 

” He preferred to attack the other end, in the chateau, 
as likely to prove shorter. The result you know.” 

” And when you have got the money ? ” 

** I have to convey it by degrees — or rather, cause it 
to be conveyed — ^to an agent in Paris, and he to England 
to be melted down. It is of course useless in its present 


PLOTTER AND PRIEST 


189 


state. When I reach it I calculate that it will take me 
three or four days to get it away, a portion at a time. It 
will be too heavy to take aU at once, for so much weight 
in so little bulk would excite suspicion." 

" I see that you are coming earlier," said Valentine. 
** Does that mean that you will be able to say Mass ? 
I have found all that is requisite." 

" I think I may promise it," replied the gardener. 

Next day, as he had predicted, he was working in the 
front of the chateau, and a Deputy whom Valentine showed 
round said that he was glad something was being done to 
the flower beds, but that he considered M. Camain rather 
parsimonious in the matter of labour. 

During the next three days, although the priest had 
returned to his work in the park, something invariably 
happened to prevent Mme de Trelan from getting speecla 
with him. But on the fourth afternoon she had the curi- 
osity to go and stand by the great fireplace in the sallette. 
She most distinctly heard gnome-like activities at work 
below. Evidently the miner was advancing in his 
task. 

Next morning she sought him out soon after he arrived, 
while he was still in the front of the chateau. 

" Will you come to my room to-day for your coflee. 
Monsieur TAumonier ? " she asked. 

“ Certainly, Madame," responded the gardener, and he 
walked beside her wheeling his wheelbarrow. " I wanted 
to speak with you about a certain arrangement. I shall 
not be here much longer, I think," he added significantly. 

"You are — advancing ? " 

" To-morrow or the next day wiU see the end, I hope. 
1 will certainly come at noon." 

And he came, punctually. He was hot and rather dirty. 
Valentine let him eat his meal in peace. 

" And so it really was true, the tale of the treasure," 
she said meditatively, as he drew to a close. 

" Every word, Madame," replied the priest. 

" And you have actually secured the whole of it ? " 

" Except the jewels — and unless I am prevented from 
going on to-morrow." 

" Why should you be ? " 

" One never knows," said he, and finished his coflee with 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


190 

appreciation. ** And now/* he added briskly, " about 
to-morrow morning ? " 

** You will really do it for me ? God reward you. 
Father ! ” 

“ I will come at half-past four to-morrow to your entrance 
here. I suppose there is a private door to the chapel from 
the chateau ? You will have everything ready ? Per- 
haps you have made ready for Mass before ? *’ 

“Yes, I have,” said the Duchesse. 

“ Then that is settled,” observed M. Chassin, brushing 
the crumbs off his person. “ The sentry is used by now 
to my industrious early entrances, and there is no one 
about to ask why, having entered, I am not to be seen 
working. Nor wiU anybody, I presume, ring your bell at 
that early hour. I see no extra hazard at all ; and most of 
my treasure trove is already in Paris, in good hands.” 

At the door he stopped. “ There is only one thing more. 
For whose soul do you wish this Mass said, Madame Vidal ? 

Valentine did not reply at once. She suddenly saw 
what questions it would lead to if she said “ For the 
Due de Trelan’s.” Perhaps he would even refuse to 
say a requiem for Gaston at all unless she told him 
by what right she demanded it. A desire, very unlike 
her, to put off the difficult moment seized her. If she 
only told him the name to-morrow, at the eleventh hour, 
when the candles were lit, and everything ready, surely 
he would ask no questions then. Or if it came to it, she 
might even teU him who she was. But not now. 

“ May I tell you to-morrow morning. Father ? ” she asked. 

M. Chassin raised his clumsy eyebrows a trifle, but since 
he could not very well pretend that it was of paramount 
importance to know the name overnight, he said, “ Very 
well, my daughter,” and departed. 


CHAPTER XV 

UNDER THE SEAL 

The chapel at Mirabel, of later date than the chateau 
itself, was one of those lofty, pompous, rococo edifices 
abounding in heavy wood-carving, and puffy-cheeked 
cherubs, and tribunes with bulged and gilded fronts almost 
suggestive of a theatre. But hostile hands, in stripping it 
of some of its exuberance, had bestowed the crown of 
martyrdom on its floridity, and the light of this early 
summer morning, streaming in through the red and purple 
clad saints of the apsidal eastern window, seemed a little 
to dispel its chill — ^the chill of a building long disused 
— ^though it could not replace the warm memory of incense 
and the winking light before the tabernacle. 

The candles on the unvested marble altar, and those in 
the great carved candlesticks where the bier or catafalque 
should have stood, were of brown wax as usage demanded. 
Valentine had found them, and in another place the black 
and gold vestments for the priest, stored away with the 
rest, and she had brought out from the sacristy and spread 
between the candlesticks on the floor itself — since there was 
no bier — ^the black pall with the arms of the house of Trelan. 
Everything was ready, and now she herself, the solitary 
worshipper, knelt with bowed head on a chair in the nave, 
though it wanted yet an hour to the priest's coming. 
She was making her preparation for confession, for she 
was going to ask for communion at this Mass. The resolve 
to do so had come to her during the night. 

Nearly half-past four already. Valentine hurried back 
to her room. He was very punctual, the gardener priest, 
and prudent to boot, for he did not even wake any echoes 
by ringing, but tapped upon the outer door. 

“ Everything is ready, mon pere. I will take you 
straight to the chapel," said Mme de Trelan. ' 

191 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


192 

M. Chassin paused a moment when he got inside the 
building. This, then, was where his foster-brother had 
married the beautiful and unfortunate lady as M. de 
Brencourt had justly called her. Little as Mme Vidal 
had been able to do, the place had something the air of 
requiem ; he saw the candles, the pall — ^and then the 
arms on the pall. Surely she, a former domestic, would 
not have brought that out save for a member of the house ! 
Then he thought, wondering at his own slow-wittedness, 
that of course she wanted a Mass said for the Duchesse 
Valentine. He was more than glad to say one here for 
the repose of that soul. 

As he moved forward again Mme Vidal pointed out the 
sacristy. I will light the candles while you vest. Father,” 
she added. ” But, before you begin Mass, I should like to 
make my confession, for I wish to communicate. And then 
I will tell you for whose soul I am asking for this Mass.” 

M. Chassin, feehng that he hardly needed now to be 
told, disappeared into the sacristy. Valentine lit the 
candles on the altar and those round the paU. Before she 
had finished the priest emerged in alb and stole, tying the 
girdle of the former round him as he came, for there was 
need of haste in all this business. He entered the con- 
fessional, whose elaborate carving bore scars from axe 
or hammer, and drew the curtain after him. She went and 
knelt down at the right-hand grille. 

There was absolute silence when Valentine had finished. 
All through the priest had hardly said a word or asked 
her a question, and from the beginning she had resolved 
to make no mysteries, but here, under the seal, to be 
perfectly frank about her identity. It would have meant, 
perhaps, evasions else. 

But the silence was so prolonged that at last she raised 
her eyes, and could just see through the grille enough to 
gather that the Abbe had covered his own eyes with his 
hand. It was not till then that Valentine fuUy recognised 
how even to this man, unconnected, save as a political 
plotter, with the house of Trelan, it must come as a shock 
to learn, in the very chapel of Mirabel itself, her identity 
with its supposedly murdered mistress. She had not 
been thinking enough of herself to realise that ; rather of 


UNDER THE SEAL 


193 


her relations to Gaston. She waited ; and after a momeat 
or two more her confessor seemed to collect himself, and 
in a shaken voice named her penance and gave her absolu- 
tion. 

Bent under the weight of freedom Valentine bowed 
her head, and so remained — till she suddenly heard the 
rungs of the curtain in front of the confessional rattle on 
their little pole, and it came to her that the priest, still so 
strangely silent, was preparing to leave the box. But 
there was still something for her to say. 

“ Father, now you can guess for whose soul I wish this 
Mass said — ^for that of my husband, Gaston, Due de Troian.” 

Still silence. M. Chassin had, in fact, only drawn aside 
the curtain because in the tumult of his emotions he felt 
that he was suffocating. He was not thinking of moving 
at that moment ; he was incapable of it. X^at was he 
to do ! what, in God’s name, was he to do ! And there was 
no time to think, that was the terrible part of it. He could 
not knowingly enact a sacrilege. . . . And this, this was 
the murdered Duchesse ! It was incredible — yet obviously 
true, though his brain could hardly grasp it yet. . . . But 
the other side of the business I Of course Gaston’s re- 
peated injunction to respect his secret to tire uttermost, 
an injunction laid on him afresh not long ago at Hennebont, 
did not apply to this case, which the Due could not 
have foreseen ... no man could have imagined a resur- 
rection hke this ! Yet what was it, nobody in the world,’* 
“whatever you think might be gained by it.” He must 
have a httle time to consider. . . . And he must say 
something now. . . . 

“ My child,” he managed to get out, “ I cannot well say 
a requiem Mass unless I have reason to ... to know the 
person dead.” 

“ But I know it. Father,” came the sad voice. “ Is 
not that enough ? ” 

She had heard some rumour, of course. How to convey 
to her its falsity without betraying what he knew as fact 
— and witliout undue shock to her ? 

“ I suppose, my daughter,” he said gently, “ that you 
have had some private information. Is it — forgive me — 
is it reliable ? ” 

Valentine caught her breath. ” Only too much so, I 

V 


194 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


fear/* And then a light broke upon her. “ Surely, 
Father, as you were sent from the Marquis de Kersaint 
about this business, and he knew of the Due’s death, you 
know it, too ? Or did he keep you in ignorance before he 
sent you to Mirabel ? ** 

“ Wiat I ’* exclaimed M. Chassin, thinking he had not 
heard aright through the grille. “ What did you say, 
my child ? M. de Kersaint knew that the Due was dead ? 
'Wlio told you that ? ” 

His astonishment set a mad hope tearing at Valentine’s 
heart. “ M. de Brencourt,” she answered. ** Was he 
wrong, then ? ” 

But M. Chassin had flung himself out of the confessional, 
his stole in his hand. “ M. de Brencourt ! ” he exclaimed. 
Once out he seemed on the verge of some expression better 
befitting his late employment as gardener or plotter than 
his present as priest. “ M. de Brencourt told you — my 
child, do not stay kneeling there . . . M. de Brencourt 
. . . here, sit on this chair and let me hear more of this 
extraordinary . . . misunderstanding ! — May I know this 
great matter — ^your identity — ^so long as to speak of it a 
little now ? ” 

His face was mottled with emotions. Valentine, her 
eyes fixed on him, had already risen from her knees and 
did sink down on the chair he indicated. In front of her 
the candles burnt round the pall and on the altar, ready 
for the funeral Mass 

“ Yes, Father — but — misunderstanding ! ** she caught 
at the word. “ Is it imtrue, then, Father, is it untrue ? ” 
I do not say that, but . . . teU me what M. de Bren- 
court said to you 1 ” 

But is it untrue — ^is it untrue ? ” she repeated piteously. 
“ O God, is he ahve after all ? ” 

The secret knocked so hard at the door of the priest’s 
lips that it seemed to him it must force its way out. It 
was cruelty to keep her in this tension — and almost 
absurd, too. But he must have a little time to reflect 
if he were justified in breaking so solemn a promise. 

“ Calm yourself, Madame la Duchesse,” he said, and, 
sufficiently agitated himself, sat down beside her. How 
extraordinary, how dizzjdng a sensation to be in the 
actual living presence of her whose loss had turned the 


UNDER THE SEAL 


195 

whole current of his foster-brother’s being. ** Tell me 
first just what M. de Brencourt said.” 

Valentine put her hands to her head in the effort to 
remember exactly. 

” He said that M. de Kersaint had told him it was use- 
less to write to the Due de Trelan for permission to search 
here because he had just heard that the Due was dead — 
had been dead some time.” 

” And M. de Brencourt told you that ! ” 

Valentine’s heart seemed to stand still. ” It was false 
then ? ” 

” I cannot say, Madame, whether it was false or true,*' 
responded M. Chassin, ” this only, that M. de Brencourt 
must have strangely misunderstood M. de Kersaint, 
for the Marquis has certainly no grounds for asserting 
that the Due is dead. I do not say that it is not so, but 
he has no authority for asserting it . . . and I do not 
believe that he ever did.” 

What was the mystery ? The chapel, the lights, were 
beginning to dance round Valentine. The priest guessed 

it. 

” Madame, this is too much for you. And for me, too. 
... To learn that you are alive — Let us both try to be 
calm. I will do what I came here to do, and though I 
cannot say a funeral Mass for the Due de Trelan because 
. . . because I am convinced that he is still ahve, I will 
say one for his intention and for yours, and for your re- 
union . . . and for wisdom to know how to act,” he 
added almost to himself. ” But you will give me leave 
to retain my knowledge of who you are, will you not ? 
As you are aware, I must not, having learnt it as I did, 
unless you sanction it ? ” 

” But not to use it. Father, not to impart to any third 
person.” 

” Not even to ** He checked himself. 

” Not to anyone,” said Valentine firmly. ” I am no 
longer the Duchesse de Trelan. It was necessary, I thought, 
that you should know I once was. Now I am Mme Vidal, 
again.” 

” Then,” said the priest very solemnly, ” I implore you, 
as your confessor, either to write without loss of time to 
M. de Kersaint, telling him who you are, and asking for 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


196 

details about your husband which only he can give you, 
or, better still," his voice shook with earnestness, "to go in 
person to Brittany to see him. Believe me, you will be 
more than thankful ail your life if you do. I will give you 
directions afterwards. And now I will finish vesting." 

Valentine slipped to her knees, and remained sunk 
on the kneeling-chair while M. Chassin hastily rolled aside 
the pall, put out the great candles, and went into the 
sacristy. 

Yet in a moment or two he was hurrying out and 
bending over the kneeling figure. " Madame, Madame, 
I think it must be your beU which is ringing so furiously ! " 

He had to repeat it again ; but, when once she had 
understood, Mme de Tr41an was in full possession of her 
wits. 

" I will go at once. Father. It must be something 
unusual at this hour. But take off those vestments — 
leave the chapel ! You must not be found here at any 
cost I " 

Fears only for him hurried her out of the chapel and 
along the corridor. It was true ; her bell was ringing 
violently, and it could not be much later than five o'clock. 

She expected to find outside the door soldiers, or at 
least the sentry. The only being there was a rather 
indignant small boy, who said reproachfully that he had 
been ringing for five minutes, and asked if the gardener 
were anywhere about. The child seemed so httle the 
herald of danger that Valentine said she thought that she 
could find him, and asked why he was wanted. 

" Tell him, please," said the small messenger, sniffing, 

that his mother in Paris is very ill — dying — and that he 
must go at once if he wants to see her ahve." And as 
Valentine gave an exclamation he added, " A man has 
come from Paris to say this. The gardener must hurry. 
That's all." And he scampered up the steps again. 

Valentine hastened out into the passage, relieved to see 
in the distance the form of the Abb^, once more a gardener, 
coming towards her. 

" There is bad news for you. Monsieur I’Abbe, I am sorry 
to say," she exclaimed when he came within hearing. 

“ Your mother in Paris " 

Is dying, I suppose," finished the priest with a strange 


UNDER THE SEAL 


197 

mixture of concern and irritation. " Do not be distressed, 
Madame, for I have no mother. It means something 
quite different. I will come into your room for a moment 
— but I must leave Mirabel at once. ... It means, in 
fact,’' he went on, once inside, “ that the agent in Paris 
who has the bulk of the treasure in his possession by now, 
and who has the task of transferring it to England, is in 
peril of some kind — ^has probably faUen imder suspicion. 
There is not a moment to lose if I am to save the money. 
Fortunately I had not begun Mass . . . Before I go, 
however ...” He fumbled hastily in a pocket, and 
bringing out something wrapped in a scrap of faded silk, 
slid the contents out on to the table — a ghttering, snake- 
like heap of blood and fire and tarnished gold. 

” This is yours, Madame, by every right. I cannot 
take it ! ” 

Valentine stared at it a moment. ” But I do not 
need it. Monsieur I’Abb^. Take it with the rest ! ” 

” No. It would provide for the journey, Madame, which 
I implore you to make,” returned M. Chassin, looking at 
her hard. ” And the directions I promised you — ^havo 
you pencil and paper ? M. de Kersaint’s headquarters 
are now at an old manoir called le Clos-aux-Grives, ne^ 
Lanvennec in Finistere. If you journey in person to Lan- 
vennec you should go by the route which I am writii^ 
down. In the end you will be directed to a little farm 
called the Ferme des Vieilles, not very far from his head- 
quarters, and on saying there these words in Bas-Breton 
^ will be made easy for you.” Standing, he wrote for a 
moment or two, blessed her, and remained looking at her, 
for all his haste, with an expression Valentine could not 
decipher — the expression of a man tom by perplexity. 
Then he caught her hand, kissed it, and in a very little 
had been let out of the door and was hurrying up the 
steps. 

And Mme de Troian, who had meant to watch him safely 
past the sentry, stood oblivious with closed eyes. ... 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE queen’s move 

Three days later, about sunset, the Duchesse de Troian, 
her long dead predecessor’s rubies heavy, warm, and 
invisible about her neck, stood in the great Salle Verte, 
probably for the last time. Only one more day remained 
of her strange tenancy of Mirabel — for Camain had made 
no sign — and moreover nothing would have kept her 
longer now. She was on fire to get to Finistere ... if it 
were possible. 

Of the Abb^ she had heard nothing — but she could 
expect to hear nothing, unless it were news of his arrest. 
No one had seemed perturbed at the non-appearance of 
the gardener ; possibly no one knew of it. She could 
only hope that he had got the treasure away from Paris, 
for his coming had so profoundly affected her that she 
could not but wish him well. They would meet again, 
she supposed, in Brittany, if she ever got there — for, 
money apart (and that she had, the reward for Roland) 
how was she going to find a means to take her unmolested 
from Paris into the furthest fastnesses of the Royalist 
West ? 

A mellowed light between afternoon and evening was 
pouring in, softening the vista of green marble pillars and 
the gilt. Would she ever see the Salle Verte again after 
to-morrow ? Much had happened there. The great apart- 
ment peopled itself for a space with that throng on her 
wedding night, one young and splendid figure outshining 
every other man there ; it held again the later assemblies 
it had seen, the men of note that the Duchesse de 
Trelan had known, the soldiers, the diplomats, the courtiers, 
the grandes dames ... all that scarlet-heeled, powdered, 
witty, gallant, vicious world, exquisite, debauched and 
courteous, everyone of whom, however reluctant or defiant, 
had come to the brink of the red torrent which flowed 

198 


THE QUEEN’S MOVE 


199 


between that life and this, the torrent in which most of 
them had been swept away, with so many of the old land- 
marks, good or bad, as well. And for a moment Valentine 
found herself wondering what this historic room, still 
unhurt, unpillaged, might be destined to witness in the 
future. No de Trelan, at least, would ever tread its floor 
again. 

Unless Gaston came back . . . some day. He might 
— ^he might I Stranger things had happened. Only it 
was certain that he would never come back under any 
conditions that involved a pact with the spoilers. 
No exile, no hardships, nothing that she could imagine, 
would have changed that trait in him. . . . 

A step, a heavy, hasty step, broke into her reverie — 
a step that had not been her way of late. It could only 
be one person’s. She turned, and saw M. Georges Camain 
advancing along the line of pillars towards her, wearing a 
face of thunder. 

Valentine’s heart sank. She went a few paces to meet 
him, and he stayed his advance, and, beckoning to her in a 
manner quite devoid of his usual objectionable gallantry, 
walked back to the great hearth and took up his stand 
by it. Evidently he felt the middle of so vast an apart- 
ment no place for a scene, and that there was going to be 
a scene was written on his whole demeanour. 

** Well, Madame Vidal 7 ” He threw the words at her 
like a challenge. 

She met his look with composure, and answered, ** Yes, 
Citizen Deputy.” 

“Yes, Citizen Deputy,” he mimicked her angrily. 

“ The Citizen Deputy wants to know what you have done 
with the gardener who was working here a few days ago ? ” 

“ I have done nothing with him. Citizen. He has not 
been here for the last three days.” 

“ Indeed ? And do you know why he left ? ” 

“ A messenger came to say that his mother in Paris 
was dying,” 

“ Mother ! ” said Camain, exploding. “ Mother dying ! 
You have the impudence . . . Shall I tell you, since you 
are so persistently innocent, why he left ? His plans 
in Paris were threatened, and you know what those plans 
were, and his work here, too, as well as I — no, by God, 


200 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


better, since I have not yet had time to investigate his 
operations at Mirabel.'* 

" Plans ? Work ? " repeated Valentine. " Do you 
refer to the Italian " 

Pshaw ! " broke in the ex- Jacobin savagely, “ don’t 
trifle with me like that, woman ! I say you know what 
he came to do, and you helped him to do it, and to get 
away with his booty.” 

Then he had got away ... or did Camain only mean 
from Mirabel ? Valentine made no reply. 

” Why don’t you answer me ? ” barked her late 
admirer. 

” You are so positive. Citizen Deputy, what is the 
use ? It is of little avail for me to protest — ^though you 
must know it quite well — ^that I had no hand in the appoint- 
ment of this gardener who seems to have displeas^ you, 
nor in the carrying out of his * work,’ whatever it may 
have been, except that I used to give him a cup of coffee 
with his meal at mid-day.” 

“Yes, just as out of the same pure kindness you opened 
the door in the park wall to let one or the other of the rest 
out or in — just as you fooled me into saving you from 
being confronted with the man who broke into the sallette, 
your acoomplice, whom you invited here, I expect ” 

“ Never ! ” interrupted Valentine firmly. “ I had 
nothing to do with his coming, any more than with that 
of the gardener.” 

Camain would not hsten. “ Then, like a fool, I gave you 
thirty days in which you were assured of my absence — 
incredible idiot that I was ! And this is the use you have 
made of them ! ” His towering rage seemed almost as 
much with himself as with her ; but his scowl was not 
pleasant to sustain. 

“ Did I appoint the gardener. Citizen ? ” 

“ That is not the question. He got his appointment by 
chicanery, used it to search Mirabel for hidden treasure 
in the interests of the Royahsts, and you furthered his 
researches — ^you who asked me so guilelessly a little time 
ago for what reason that other man could have broken in.” 

“ I absolutely deny that I furthered his researches in 
any way,” retorted Valentine with spirit. 

“ If 5^u did not actually go and help him dig,” retorted 


201 


THE QUEEN'S MOVE 

Camain, scowling worse than ever, ” you knew of his pur- 
pose, and it was your duty to tell me." 

" I wonder if it was," said Valentine reflectively, almost 
more to herself than to him. 

The irate Georges stared at her a second in amazement. 
"You are a cool hand ! " he exclaimed. "You wonder 
if it was . . . when I am paying you to look after the 
place " — a flush rose in Valentine’s cheek — " and when 
now, in consequence of your silence, if not of your com- 
phcity, I am myself in a most unenviable position ! " 

" I am sorry to hear that. Monsieur le Depute," said 
Valentine gravely. 

" Deuced good of you ! It never occurred to you, 
I suppose, that I was responsible to the Government for 
Mirabel — even when I was taking down that worthless 
deposition of yours ? Still, you have shown me pretty 
clearly once that my concerns are less than nothing to 
you. But let me tell you that, if there is an enquiry, some- 
one else — ^to whom I begin to think you are under a very 
heavy debt indeed — ^wiU probably come ofl badly, and 
that is Suzon Tessier." 

She turned an alarmed face on him. " Not Suzon I 
What had she to do with it ? " 

" This, that she has had you under her roof for nearly 
seven years as her ‘ aunt,' and that it was from her house 
that you were taken off to prison as a suspected aristocrat. 
Yes, you see I know that now — ^not from Suzon, of course." 

" We are not in the Terror now," said Valentine un- 
easily. Could Suzon really be in danger ? 

" No, but we may go back to it before long if these crazy 
young Royalist reactionaries become more troublesome. 
There were quantities of colleis noirs in that fracas with 
the Jacobins of the Society du Manege last month. You 
may approve of those antics, but they will lead to — 
repression." 

" But what am I to do ? " asked Valentine. " I deny 
complicity with the persons who came here, but truth or 
falsehood, as I know, has httle to do with the verdict of a 
revolutionary jury, and for nothing in the world would I 
have Suzon suffer on my account." 

Camain took a turn up and down, his arms folded. 
" Yes, what can you do ? " he asked sarcastically. " Rather 


202 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


late to think of that now ! Well, I think the best thing 
you can do, Madame Vidal, is to vanish. If there is an 
enquiry, which I shall do my best to prevent for my own 
sake, Suzon had better not be able to produce you.*’ 

Valentine’s heart gave a leap. Was it possible that he, 
of all people, might be interested in her going to Finistere ? 
A few moments ago her chances of an interview with the 
Marquis de Kersaint had seemed very remote indeed. 

“ But how can I vanish in a moment ? ” she asked. 

Camain came nearer, and looked down at her with search- 
ing, half mocking eyes. * “ Have you no friends, no aristo- 
cratic kin who would shelter you ? Cannot you go back 
to that ‘ provincial town ’ from which you came to be 
Suzon’s aunt ? Difficult to find again, I fancy ! ... It 
must be a complete, a good disappearance — ^you must not 
be caught.” 

” To fulfil that requirement. Monsieur le Depute, there 
is no place but the grave. I do not propose to kill myseh, 
nor, I suppose, are you asking that of me.” 

An unwilhng smile came over the heavy, angry visage. 

” Corbleu, I was right in admiring you ! Yes, there is 
no place but the grave for that. I am not asking you to 
journey so far. But you understand that, if you ustnish, you 
will, in a sense, assume some of the guilt of these happenings 
at Mirabel ? ” 

” Yes, I understand. And that is what you want. 
Citizen, in order to take it off your shoulders — and Suzon’s ? ” 

** But you can scarcely regard yourself, in that case, as 
an innocent scapegoat, can you, Madame Vidal ? ” he 
suggested. 

She did not answer this, but said, with a beating heart 
and outward calm, ” There is a place to which I could go — 
a place far enough away, where I should not, probably, be 
found. But how, without a passport or papers of any kind, 
am I to get there ? ” 

” Papers ! ” he said half sneeringly. ” Plenty of 
Royalist agents in Paris would forge you those.” 

” I do not know any Royalist agents in Paris, Citizen.” 

” Again so innocent ! Do you expect me to provide 
you with papers ? ” 

” I doubt if you could,” answered Valentine. ” I 
expect nothing — ^but I do wish to preserve Suzon from ill.” 


203 


THE QUEEN’S MOVE 

“ And me ? ” suggested Camain. No, I am not much 
above a bricklayer by origin — ^no stewards to the aristo- 
cracy in my family ! Well, Madame Vidal, since I am fond 
of Suzon, and since I was misguided enough to admire you, 
and since I am not indifferent to the safety of my own 
skin, I can give you a paper ... at a price. I have 
here,” he brought out a pocket-case, ” a blank laissez- 
passer that I once got out of Barras when he was particu- 
larly in need of cash. That would carry you anywhere 
as long as the Directory stands, but it cost me a deal of 
money. The question is, how much is it worth to you ? ” 

The Duchesse’s hand went involuntarily to the neck of 
her dress. Was it for this that the Abbe had left her the 
necklace ? 

” I do not mean in money,” said Camain, watching her. 
** If you really want this paper — and you ought to want 
it, for it would be beyond price to a person in your situation 
— ^you will be willing to give me in exchange for it what I 
conceive you value most.” 

Valentine changed colour a little. ** And what is that ? ” 
she asked. 

” Your -secret,” said the Deputy. 

She star(f^ at him, bereft of speech. 

” By that I mean— your real name,” explained M. 
Camain. ” You cannot flatter yourself that, by this time, 
I do not almost know it. Did you not realise when you 
refused my suit, when you were for once your real self, 
how you betrayed your origin ? That scorn ” 

” It was not scorn of you. Monsieur Camain,” she broke 
in quickly. ” You mistook me. I did not resent your 
offer, but the . . . the grounds on which you based it. 
However, it is no good going back to that.” 

” No,” said the Deputy, looking at her as she stood 
there by the blazoned and defaced hearth, so plainly 
dressed, yet clothed with the grace and dignity that never 
left her. ” No, it is no use going back to that. But, to be 
frank with you, even after your treatment of me the other 
day in the garden, I meant to renew my suit. I told myself 
that a man ” involuntarily he drew himself up, ” is a man 
after all, and we are every one equal in these days. But 
now, I think you are too clever for the wife of a bourgeois, 
and too innately ci-devant after all, in spite of the life 


204 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


you have lived of late, and your conciergeship and the 
rest. There is, as the Scripture says, a great gulf fixed 
between us. I was aiming too high, was I not, Madame 
la . . . what was the title you used to bear ? ” 

Valentine did not answer, but said very gravely indeed, 
turning her gaze full on him. “ There is indeed a great 
gulf fixed, Monsieur le Depute, between such as you are 
and such as I. It is filled with blood — and mostly with 
innocent blood — ^the blood of my class . . . shed by 
yours." 

Georges Camain shifted uneasily. There may have 
been mistakes," he muttered, and Valentine wondered 
for a second over what private and accusing memories of 
his own his mind went glancing as he looked at the floor. 
" But come," he said, recovering himself, " we must keep 
to business. I can replace you to-morrow, and you can 
start to-morrow. You observe I do not ask your destina- 
tion. To get there, wherever it be, you have only to show 
this paper. It will open any gate to you, for that dissolute 
scoundrel’s signature is still all-powerful. You have only 
to teU me, Madame Vidal, what you called yourself in the 
days before you became Suzon Tessier’s aunt, and it is 
yours." 

" And," said Valentine slowly, " if my name should 
chance not to please you, you would have me arrested 
at once, before I had an opportunity of using your 
paper." 

" That’s the worst of you ci-devants," said the Deputy, 
in something resembUng his former jocular tones. " So 
suspicious. You won't trust the People ... I do not 
know what oath I can swear to you. And why should an 
oath be needed ; it is to my interest and my cousin's to 
get you away. Moreover I am a Theophilanthropist and 
you, .1 expect, a CathoHc." 

" Then we both believe in a God at least," said Mme 
de Trelan. " Swear to me. Monsieur Camain, by the God 
we both beheve in, that you will make no use of my name 
if I tell it to you, that you will betray it to no one else, 
that you will give me the paper and not hinder my de- 
parture, and I will tell you my secret." 

Camain raised his hand. " I swear all this, by the 
God in Whom we both beheve, and by the white head of 


THE QUEEN’S MOVE 205 

my old mother down in Angers, who still prays, I think, 
to your Catholic Virgin for her son.” 

Valentine looked away from him. 

” I am the woman who best has a right to be in Mirabel,” 
she said, with her eyes on the phoenix over the escutcheon 
where her own arms of Fondragon were quartered with all 
the rest. ” This house — ^this hearth — ^knows no name but 
the name I bear.” 

” What the . . . why . . . what in the wide universe 
do you mean ? ” ejaculated Camain, open-mouthed and 
recoiling. 

His prot6g^e turned and faced him. ” I mean that 
I am the Duchesse de Tr 41 an,” she said simply. 

Barras’ signature, turning upon itself in its descent, 
fluttered from the Deputy’s paralysed hand to the floor 
between them. 


t 


I 


i 

d 


BOOK III 

LE CLOS-AUX-GRIVES 

•* Why care by what meanders we are here 
In the centre of the labyrinth ? Men have died 
Trying to find this place, which we have found." 

In a Balcony 


CHAPTER I 

THE COURT OF CHARLEMAGNE 

Because it was both midday and high summer, the 
thrushes that gave its pretty name to the old farmhouse of 
Le Clos-aux-Grives, near Lanvennec in Finistere, were not 
singing ; and though the same hour of noon which silenced 
them called insistently for some voice from the large iron 
cooking-pot that hung over the fire in the living-room, the 
pot also was mute. Yet Lucien du Boisfosse, wearing as 
serious a face as that which he had bent over the Mneid 
at Hennebont, was seated on a stool near it, almost under 
the deep recessed hearth, and from time to time he would 
rise, take off the lid, and peer into its contents. 

The youthful cook was not alone in the big, low room — 
far from it. On one of the aged black oak settles that ran 
out at right angles from the hearth was seated Artamene 
de la Vergne, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees 
and a riding-switch between his hands. He was regarding 
his friend's occupation with much the same amused 
criticism which he had bestowed on Roland's bedmaking 
in M. Chariot’s attic four months ago. And at least a 
dozen other gentlemen, some quite >oung, some in the 
thirties or forties, were also in the room, talking and 
laughing. For though the three treasure-seekers who had 
formed part of the smaller gathering at Hennebont were 
still missing, their places, as far as numbers went, were 
amply filled. 

Tlie projects which had been discussed with Georges 
Cadoud^ on that occasion were in a fair way of realisation 
to-day. Finistere was in process of organisation — at the 
cost of weeks of unremitting toil and danger, in which 
M. de Kersaint had personally traversed all the wildest 
districts of the department. As far as the promise of men 
went, the harvest was good, but, as usual, the pinch came 
• 2K)9 


210 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


over arming them — and Mirabel had not yet yielded up 
its treasure. The chief source of encouragement, however, 
lay in the aspect of the political situation : the effect 
produced by the numerous Austrian and Russian victories 
of the spring and summer — not yet indeed come to an 
end, for it was the eve of Novi ; the weariness of the 
country, still groaning under a detested but tottering 
government; the hopes based on the important Royalist 
movement centred in Bordeaux, which embraced Toulouse 
and Languedoc, and not a little, too, on the revulsion 
caused by the cruel operation of the Law of Hostages of 
July 12, which actually forced recruits into the Chouan 
camp. 

Of the other Royalist leaders many were still in England. 
And the Marquis de Kersaint was not advertising him- 
self ; with the means at his disposal — for in no one place 
could he hope to get together a really formidable force — 
his aim, when the time came, was to surprise rather than 
to defy. Weeks, however, would probably elapse before 
concerted action was taken, and meanwhile he had still 
to find most of the arms and ammunition required. And, 
though he had his staff round him here, his men, his gars, 
were, with certain exceptions, going about their usual 
avocations, cultivating their farms or preparing for har- 
vest. Only, one day, when the whisper went round, the 
hoe and sicMe would Ue idle in the fields, and he who had 
been a small farmer would turn up in the likeness of a 
brigand at the rallying-place — Galoppe-la-Frime or Frappe 
d'Abord the Chouan. 

In one thing alone was M. de Kersaint singular, in that 
he already had a regular headquarters and was able to 
occupy it unmolested. Even Cadoudal and his subordi- 
nates in the Morbihan judged it prudent to leave theirs 
by night, and sleep dispersed in the forest. That M. de 
Kersaint and his officers could remain with impunity at the 
Clos-aux-Grives, that despatches found their way there 
and that it was the discreet centre of a continual going 
and coming of emissaries, as the work of organisation 
advanced towards completion, was owing to the fact 
that it stood in furthest Finistdre, the most remote and 
untouched part of the intractable West. It was too diffi- 
cult for the Blues, as they were termed, to get at it. 


THE COURT OF CHARLEMAGNE 


2II 


And so, in this large farm-house, once a manoir, all but 
the superior officers of M. de Kersaint’s staff were awaiting 
their noontide meal this August day. The old greenish 
glass in the tiny panes admitted a tempered light, but 
the room was large enough to have windows on both 
sides, and it was a pleasant apartment. At night it was 
used as a dormitory by the younger officers, who slept 
on pallets on the floor, for which reason, and ^so because 
it was mainly ‘ les jeunes * who inhabited it at any time, 
M du Menars, acting second-in-command till the Comte 
de Brencourt’s return, had christened it * the nursery ’ — 
earning thereby small gratitude from Lucien and Artamene 
and their peers. On the long table, dark with the polish 
of ages, were set platters, horn spoons and forks, bowls 
of the cheerful Quimper ware, and jugs of cider, but the 
meal, whatever its nature, seemed to be dependent on the 
boiling of Lucien's pot, to which process, indeed, other 
eyes than Artamene*s were directed. 

M. de la Vergne himself was moved at last to expostu- 
late, though as a matter of fact he had only come into the 
* nursery ' five minutes before. Stretching out an arm, 
he tapped the pot with his switch, and said gently, ** What 
is in this receptacle, my good Lucien ? Stones ? 

“ I am sure I don't know," replied M. du Boisfoss4 in a 
rather exasperated voice. ** They brought it in here from 
the kitchen, and said it would finish cooking nicely, if I 
would just see that the fire was kept up. And I've put 
sticks and sticks on the wretched thing " 

" And blacked your face into the bargain," finished his 
friend brutally. " I expect it is the mortal part of that 
superannuated cow I have seen about. . . . Never mind, 
time conquers all things, even cows. Put on yet more 
sticks, and while the old lady simmers I will tell you a piece 
of news. M. le Marquis is going to recall — ^you can guess 
whom I " 

" Not our long-lost Roland ? " exclaimed Lucien, starting 
up. 

Artamene nodded. " If you agitate yourself, mon ami, 
you will knock your head against the hearth next. Yes, 
it appears that the convalescent adventurer has written 
him so penitent and piteous a letter from Kerlidec that our 
leader's heart is softened, and he is writing to tell Roland 


212 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


that he may rejoin us. You have heard, of course, 
gentlemen," he went on, addressing a little group of newly- 
joined young officers who had strolled over to the hearth, 
"how our paladin was unhorsed at Roncesvalles — that 
is to say, winged by the guard of the enchanted castle of 
Mirabel. But he did not fall into the hands of the Saracens, 
like M. de Brencourt, his successor, for the princess who 
inhabits the same, in other words, the concierge, taking 
pity on him, nursed and smuggled him out of Mirabel again 
to his relatives in Paris. Thence, when he was sufficiently 
recovered, the poor Roland returned home to, I am afraid, 
a very irate grandparent. — Keep the dowager going, 
Lucien ! " 

" And now you say that Charlemagne has relented, and 
is going to summon him here ? " said Lucien, taking up his 
friend’s metaphor. " What a mercy ! " 

" I suppose M. le Marquis has been anxious about M. de 
Celigny ? " suggested one of the newcomers. 

“ Yes, very anxious — and more than anxious, exceed- 
ingly angry," replied M. du Boisfosse. " Isn't that so, 
Artamdne." 

" Parbleu ! " remarked M. de la Vergne, making a 
face. 

" Do you mean angry with you, Chevalier ? " pursued the 
enquirer. " Why ? " 

" Because I had a hand in M. de Celigny 's enterprise," 
explained Artam^ne, sighing gently. " I would fain have 
shared it altogether, but I was winged myself then. We 
planned it together in our retirement last spring — if what 
we had to leave so largely to chance can be said to have 
had a plan. And then, when Roland had set out, his 
grandfather wrote to the Marquis to know what had become 
of him, and M. le Marquis sent to me, and out it all came 
. . . at least, most of it. I said that Roland had gone to 
visit his cousins in Paris, which was true, but not, I must 
confess, the whole truth. If I may venture a counsel, 
gentlemen, to such of you as are newcomers, always tell 
the whole truth when you are dealing with M. le Marquis." 

" And when did you tell the whole truth, then. La 
Vergne ? " 

" When I came here," replied Artam^ne. He beat a 
little tattoo on one boot with his riding-switch, and added 


THE COURT OF CHARLEMAGNE 


213 


in a feeling voice, but with a laugh in the corner of his eye, 
“ — a memorable day/' 

** Dies nefas” commented Lucien. 

** And M. de Kersaint was displeased with you ? ” 

** Displeased ! " exclaimed the culprit. “ Had I pos- 
seted the gift of metamorphosis the shape of a mouse, a 
spider — of a gnat, even — ^had speedily been mine." 

A laugh went round his audience. 

" But," objected someone, " I do not see in your case, 
Chevalier, the reason for this excessive wrath at which you 
hint." 

" Well, for one thing," returned Artamene pensively, 
" M. le Marquis had definitely forbidden either of us to go 
to Mirabel, whereas I . . . and my family . . . had 
certainly encouraged Roland’s expedition. Then the 
Marquis seemed to consider also that I had deceived him 
about Roland by merely telling him of his visit to those 
confounded cousins (which of course I did solely to shield 
Roland). In fact he characterised my conduct by a very 
unpleasant term which I am not going to repeat. (How- 
ever, we have since made it up, Charlemagne and I.) 
And thirdly, to such of us as have seen them together, it is 
undeniable that between M. le Marquis and the Vicomte 

de C^ligny there subsists " 

" Chut ! " said the prudent Lucien, holding up a finger. 
" Mais, au nom de Dieu, pourquoi chut ? " demanded 
Artamene in a voice of injured innocence. " I was merely 
going to say that there subsisted between them a special 
affection, of which I, for one, am not in the least jealous. 
What is the harm in that remark ? " 

Nobody present either condemned or absolved him, but 
one or two who in the spring had seen the couple together 
turned away to hide a smile. 

" I still cannot quite understand," remarked Lucien 
judicially, " how this good fairy of a concierge came to be 
inhabiting Mirabel. I thought that the place was in the 

hands of the Directory, and surely their nominee " 

" We shall have to wait until the Abb^ or M. de Brencourt 
returns to discover that," said Artamene. " I gathered 
that M. le Marquis expects the latter any day now ; it 
seems, from what the Abb^ wrote, a foregone conclusion 
that he would succeed in escaping from the Temple." 


214 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** How ? ” asked Lucien, his head almost in the pro- 
crastinating pot. 

** Mainly by the use of the root of all evil, mon cher — 
in plainer language, by bribery. I thought you knew 
that.’' 

” And M. le Comte did not get the treasure from Mira- 
bel ? ” asked a newcomer. 

“ No, the booty is left to the Church to secure. And, 
do you know, I shall stake my money on the Church’s 
success.” 

” I wish Roland could have got it,” murmured Lucien. 

” So do I,” said Artamene. ” So does . . . my family.” 
He got up and stretched himself. ” But, dear me, we were 
very young last spring ! I am older now, and wiser — 
much wiser. And as for poor Roland, he must have 
attained to such a pitch of sagacity that ” He sud- 

denly stopped and remained fixed, his arms extended, 
and, staring at an open casement said, ” Morbleu, talk of 
the devil ! ” 

” What is it ? ” exclaimed several voices, their owners 
following his gaze, while Lucien sprang up and had exactly 
that encounter with the overhanging hearth which his 
friend had predicted. 

” May I be shot if that is not the Comte de Brencourt 
in person, just ridden into the courtyard ! ” And Arta- 
mene dashed to the -window, followed by almost everybody 
else. 

But in a moment he had turned away again, shaking his 
head. “Too late ! ” he said disappointedly. “ He will 
go straight to M. le Marquis now. Besides, he did not 
look as if he would be communicative ; he had his mouth 
shut like a strongbox.” And he regretfully strolled back 
to the fire, which the sedulous Lucien had not deserted. 
“ Good Heavens, philosopher, isn’t that souffld of yours 
cooked yet ? ” 

“ I think,” said M. du Boisfosse, prodding about with a 
fork, one hand pressed to his head, “ that I shall assume 
the process.” 


CHAPTER II 

M. DE. KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR A KINSMAN 

About the time that the contents of Lucien’s pot were 
becoming only a tough memory, the Marquis de Kersaint 
was standing, with his hands behind his back, looking out 
through the casement of the small room on the upper 
floor of the Clos-aux-Grives which was set apart for his 
sole use, and out of which led a still smaller bedroom. 
Under his gaze was the farmyard, still stocked with chickens 
and pigs, and then, almost at once, came the outposts of 
the great forest which stretched for many miles to the 
south-west, and whose friendly presence had been one of his 
reasons for his choice of headquarters. From the window 
of the inner room could be seen also the low bare contours 
of the lande, studded with menhirs. 

M. de Kersaint, however, was not occupied with the 
view. He was thinking about the singularly unsatisfactory 
interview which he had just had with his returned chief of 
staff. For M. de Brencourt would hardly answer any 
questions about his doings, seemed to know almost nothing 
of the unusual concierge at Mirabel (of whom, and of whose 
services to Roland M. de Kersaint had heard from the 
Abbe) and, when taxed with having written from the 
Temple, as he had, a letter dissuading his leader from 
sending another emissary after the treasure, could only 
reply that he supposed, at his age, captivity was extinguish- 
ing to the sense of adventure. And, when closer pressed 
as to why he had stated in so many words that the gold 
was impossible to get at and the place closely guarded, 
whereas the Abbe had just written exactly the opposite, 
he had made no answer at all. Decidedly, in view of the 
effect which Mirabel had had on him, it would have been 
better not to have sent him at all. 

The Marquis turned at last from the window. He had 
discarded the peasant’s dress now-a-days, and wore a dark- 

215 


2I6 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


green uniform with black facings, with the little red and 
white ribbon of the Order of Maria Theresa on the breast, 
and a white scarf round the waist. Out of a small travelling 
safe near the window he took some letters, and re-read 
Roland de C^^ligny’s ashamed appeal with something 
between a smile and a frown. After that, obeying the 
instinct which so often pushes a man to do what hurts 
him, he re-read also the three biting epistles from M. de 
Came which Roland’s action had brought upon him. The 
first was thus conceived : 

Monsieur le * Marquis* 

I am most reluctant to enter into a correspondence 
with you, hut as I am confined to my bed with an attack of 
gout, I cannot carry out my first intention of coming in 
person to see you. Six days have now passed since you 
disbanded your cohort of young men, yet Roland has not 
been sent back to me according to the promise on which I 
was weak enough to rely. Where is the boy ? ** 

This was the first intimation which the Marquis had 
received that Roland was missing. Alarmed and angry, 
he wrote to the old man in that sense, but his disclaimer 
did not prevent his meanwhile receiving a second missive, 
now in his hand. " I find by a letter which has just reached 
me from my grandson, that instead of sending him back to 
me, you have despatched him on a secret and doubtless danger- 
ous mission to Paris, for that he can really have gone of his 
own initiative, as he says, I refuse to believe. I regret that 
my present infirmity, by making it impossible for me to offer 
you satisfaction, renders it impossible also for me to tell you 
what I think of your conduct — though, to be frank, that 
conduct does not surprise me.** 

M. de Kersaint, greatly roused, had answered that for 
his part he regretted his respect for the Baron's grey hairs 
should prevent his replying in the strain to which he was 
tempted, stating, however, that he did not send Roland 
to Paris, that on the contrary he had forbidden him to go, 
that he had only that day heard of his disobedience, and 
that he was at once instituting enquiries after him in the 
capital. His anxiety and his displeasure, he added, were 
not less than M. de Camp’s own. 


M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR A KINSMAN 217 

To which the old man had replied with brevity and 
effect : 

I have only to say that, to my hitter grief, I see at last in 
Roland the dawn of those qualities whose appearance I have 
always so much dreaded. He is indeed his father's son." 

Even now the reader flushed as his eyes met this thrust, 
and he had been far angrier when he first received it — 
angry with himself too for having protected his own honour 
by reveahng the boy’s disobedience. He might as well 
have taken the blame on his own shoulders, since the old 
man had contrived after all to put the responsibihty there 
— on the score of that paternity whicK during that visit 
to Kerlidec last February, M. de Came had at length been 
obliged to acknowledge. . . . 

Had it not been for the existence of Roland himself that 
brief amour with Laure de Celigny, more than twenty 
years ago, would have seemed now as unreal as a dream. 
It had come to pass so suddenly, been over so soon. Down 
there at Saint -Chamans, in the south of ohves and night- 
ingales and orange blossom (the south to which, for some 
reason, his wife so unwillingly and so seldom accompanied 
him) passion flared up quickly. Yet of the Vicomtesse Laure 
alone, among the many women who had loved him and the 
few he had loved, Gaston de Trelan had a particularly 
gentle memory. She had seemed to him like a dove in a 
cypress-tree. 

The episode ended. That it had ever been was not 
discovered till Laure’s sudden death, coming to light 
then only through the single letter her lover had written her, 
which (of course) she had kept. M. de Cehgny wrote to 
him. The Due de Trelan posted down from Paris to the 
olives and the nightingales and offered him satisfaction. 
Very greatly to his surprise it was refused. The Vicomte 
de Celigny — ^the cypress-tree — ^intimated that, though he 
had proof enough that M. de Trelan had been his wife’s 
lover, he had none that Roland (now two years old) was 
not his own son. He should consider him his own, and 
a duel, whatever its result, could only bring disrepute on 
the name of his dead wife. Roland ^ould succeed to his 
estates, and the Due had no claim on him whatever. A 
strange interview. 

So it was, and for three years the Due heard nothing 


2I8 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


more, and never visited his possessions in the south. Then 
he learnt, incidentally, that the child had been sent to his 
grandfather in Brittany to be brought up. The move, 
after de Celigny’s declaration, puzzled him extremely, and 
in the end he went to Kerhdec to investigate the matter. 
The fiery temper of the Baron de Came, who had worshipped 
his dead daughter, led to the meeting which his son-in-law 
had declined, and the fact that Gaston de Troian, a singu- 
larly fine swordsman, and a much younger man than 
himself (being then about six-and-thirty) disarmed him 
with ease, only increased M. de Game’s bitter resentment 
against him as the seducer — ^so he termed him — of his 
Laure. No more than his son-in-law would he acknow- 
ledge the Due’s claim on the child, and forbade him, if he 
had any regard for Laure’s memory, to see the boy again. 

But M. de Trelan had seen the five-year-old Roland at 
that very visit, and the sight was enough to explain why 
M. de Celigny had sent him away. At that age more than 
later, his resemblance to his real father was unmistakable ; 
apparently M. de Celigny had not been able to bear this 
speaking witness to his wife’s frailty, though it seemed 
that he had not moved from his intention of acknowledging 
him as his heir. To M. de Came the beautiful boy was 
merely the child of his beloved Laure. . . . The Due said 
that he would undertake not to see him again during his 
supposed father’s lifetime ; further than that he would not 
go. He had kept his word. 

But now he could claim, had claimed, if not the full 
rights of a father — ^for he had promised not to reveal his 
relationship till Roland was of age — at least some control 
over his movements. It 'was doubly unfortunate then, 
that Roland had acted as he had about Mirabel. Was 
it tme that he had handed down to the boy his own bad 
qualities — ^left conveniently unnamed in that stinging 
remark of M. de Game’s ? At any rate, he thought now 
with a bitter smile, “ I have not yet seen traces in the sweet- 
tempered Roland of being his grandfather’s grandson.” 
And, lighting a candle, he burnt the Baron’s three letters 
to ashes. 

But there was a fourth — ^that which had come with 
Roland’s — and it was couched in a milder vein. Roland 
had evidently succeeded in convincing his grandfather 


M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR A KINSMAN 219 

that the Marquis de Kersaint was far indeed from having 
had a hand in his escapade, and the Baron had consequently 
penned a rather stiff apology for his former insinuations, 
and, in addition, an obviously reluctant request for Roland’s 
recall to the Royalist colours, since he was, he confessed, 
eating his heart out at Kerlidec. M. de Kersaint had 
thereupon recalled the culprit. 

So, in a week now, he might expect Roland in person. 
He must do his best to show him just the amount of 
severity that he would have done to Lucien or Artamene, 
no less and no more. It would not be easy. The boy’s 
misdemeanour sprang after all from no worse fault than 
want of thought, and its very foolhardiness went far to 
redeem it. Suppose he had paid for it with his life ! 

And as he locked the safe, the Marquis said to himself. 

How am I ever going to repay that woman for saving the 
child ? ” 

(2) 

M. le General Marquis de Kersaint and M. le Comte de 
Brencourt supped together that evening. The latter was 
no longer a treasure-hunter ; he was M. de Kersaint ’s 
second-in-command, and he had been out of touch with 
his leader and the organisation of Finistere for some weeks. 
He had to be initiated into the present state of Royalist 
affairs in the department, and there were also a quantity of 
other matters to discuss : the proposed Anglo-Russian 
landing at the Texel, and how it would affect the West, 
how much weight Pichegru’s name would carry when he 
appeared as a Royalist, and as ever, the difficulties created 
by the vacillating conduct of the Comte d’Artois’ advisers. 

And over their meal they did discuss these, but, as they 
were neither of them men to waste words on a situation, 
they got through pretty quickly, and towards the end 
of the repast the Comte was able to gratify the curious 
desire he now seemed to have to talk about Mirabel. 

“ A monstrous fine place, you know. Marquis,” he 
observed for the second time, refilling his glass. 

” Is it ? ” said M. de Kersaint with indifference. 

” Well, you must realise that it is ! ” retorted the Comte. 
” You speak as if you had never seen it.” 

** I have seen it very seldom.” 

** If that is so, then, parbleu, you have an astounding 


220 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


memory for topographical details! The accuracy of the 
plan of the interior you made for me was astounding, 
considering that you had only been there once." 

" I never said, surely, that I had only been there once." 

" Your pardon, then. You gave me to understand as 
much. I thought, when you drew me the plan." 

" Did I ? I have no recollection of having said so, for 
as a matter of fact I must have been there quite three times 
in my life." 

The Comte smiled curiously. " Your plan becomes 
less miraculous then. But even so, the owner or someone 
must have conducted you into every hole and comer on 
the ground floor." 

To this deduction M. de Kersaint made no response. 
The Comte drank off a glass of wine, and then, just per- 
ceptibly taking a breath as one addressing himself to a 
plunge, said, " Did you ever see the Duchesse during any 
of your — three visits ? " 

" No," replied the Marquis, his eyes on the stem of his 
wineglass. " She was not there. She was often else- 
where. They had several other properties." 

" A great pity," observed M. de Brencourt meaningly, 
" that she was not elsewhere in August, ’92. Why in 
God’s name did she not emigrate ? " 

" My dear Comte, how can I say ? " retorted M. de 
Kersaint, twisting the wineglass round and round. (Had 
he turned paler ?) 

" I wonder," said his companion reflectively, " if her 
husband ever gave her the chance of going with him ? " 

How can a man in mental agony, however proud and 
determined, suppress every sign of what he is suffering ? 
Yet only a very close observer could have seen the throbbing 
of the vein at the Marquis de Kersaint 's temple. And this 
observer, though watching as the proverbial cat the mouse, 
missed it. 

" You seem to forget," returned M. de Kersaint rather 
haughtily, " that my kinsman is a gentleman. And, for 
the matter of that, the Duchesse could have gone at any 
time between '90 and ’92." 

" Quite tme. And might be alive now had she done so." 

" So might many other people, if it comes to that." 

" It was a wise precaution, certainly, leaving France. 


M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR A KINSMAN 221 


I suppose one may say you owe your life to it, de 
Kersaint ? ** 

** Possibly/' said his leader shortly. ** More probably 
I owe it to Josef Schnitterl. Pass me the wine if you 
have done with it, please." 

The Comte’s glance lit for an instant on the scrap of 
ribbon on the speaker’s breast. It was Schnitterl, the 
Marquis’s Austrian body-servant — ^not long ago serving 
their meal — ^who, as he was never tired of relating, had 
found his master half-dead on the battlefield of Rivoh. 

" If Mme de Trelan had emigrated,’’ the tormentor pur- 
sued, " the Due would be spared the burden of remorse 
which he carries — or does not carry, as the case may be." 
With that he pushed the bottle of wine towards his com- 
panion and looked him full in the face. 

But M. de Kersaint, though rather white about the 
mouth, met the look quite steadily. " Thank you," he 
said, taking the bottle. But he offered no remark on the 
subject of the Due de Troian’s problematical burden. 

" Do you know, de Kersaint," shot out the Comte sud- 
denly, watching him as he filled his glass, " that there is a 
portrait at Mirabel which reminded me very strongly of 
you — of what you must have been when you were younger." 

" Well, you know I am kin to the family." He had not 
spilled a drop of wine. 

" But by marriage only ! " riposted the Comte like light- 
ning. "You laid some stress on that once." 

, The Marquis shrugged his shoulders. "You forgot 
that, I expect, when you thought you saw a hkeness. 
Some people," he pursued with commendable sangfroid, 
" are always seeing resemblances of that sort in relations 
by marriage." 

" Indeed ! Well, you might have sat for this picture ! 
I saw it when I was arrested, for I was taken up into the 
room where all your — I mean your kinsman’s — ^family 
portraits now hang. Camain, the Deputy of whom I have 
told you, happened to be there with a party of friends, 
including his bonne amie, Mile Dufour — ^thc actress, Rose 
Dufour." 

" Yes ? " 

" It was piquant to see her there, with her great bour- 
geois admirer, going round the Due’s china under the eyes 


222 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


of all his ancestors — and under someone else* s, too” he added 
mentally, ** and must have been even more piquant for 
her — ^the Due’s former mistress.” 

” His mistress ! ” exclaimed M. de Kersaint sharply. 
” That she never was ! ” 

The Comte looked a rather mocking surprise. He had 
not expected to draw de Kersaint thus, for he believed 
what he said. ” What, you can answer for your kinsman’s 
private hfe to that extent. Marquis ! You must have 
known him pretty well, then, after all ! ” 

” I knew him well enough to be sure that that story 
has no foundation,” retorted his companion with a frown. 

” Ah ! Was he then such a puritan, the Due de 
Trelan ? ” 

” Certainly not. But every man draws the line some- 
where.” 

” I see,” observed M. de Brencourt, looking down with 
a smile at the tablecloth. ” Your noble relative thought 
too highly of himself to lay his purse at the feet of an opera 
singer, yet he did not scruple to leave his wife to years of 
penury. The world, as you must recognise, would have 
thought nothing of the first — a mere peccadillo — ^the 
second ” He shrugged his shoulders. 

Obsessed with the ineffaceable picture of the Duchesse 
in her shabby dress, he looked up to see how it was faring 
with his victim after this venomous thrust. The latter 
was gazing at him, sufficiently ghastly indeed, but with 
so much astonishment that the Comte reahsed his 
slip. 

” Years of penury ! ” said the Marquis harshly. ” What 
are you talking of, de Brencourt ? Mme de Troian was 
amply provided for during the two years of the Due’s 
emigration, and at her . . . death ” (it was evident that 
he could scarcely bring out the word) ” she certainly was 
not poor ! ” 

And at that M. de Brencourt himself went white. Good 
Heavens, supposing that in the delight of torturing him 
he let out something vital, as he had almost done now. 
He must curb his tongue. ” No, no, that is true, I sup- 
pose,” he stammered. ” I ought to beg M. de Troian’s 
pardon for saying that. ...” 

** I think you ought to beg his pardon for a good deal 


M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR A KINSMAN 223 

else that you have said about him/’ remarked M. de 
Troian’s kinsman stiffly. 

” Why, so I would, perhaps, — ^if he were here,” replied 
M. de Brencourt, shutting his eyes. 

His leader looked at him contemptuously for a moment, 
then he said, ” It is perhaps fortunate that he is not. — 
Well, did you collect any more chroniques scandaleuses at 
Mirabel ? ” 

The colour returned to the Comte’s face under the tone. 

” No. One item, however, may interest you — as a 
kinsman by marriage. Her portrait is no longer at 
Mirabel.” 

” Whose portrait ? ” 

” The late Duchesse’s.” His secret felt safer now behind 
that adjective. 

A moment’s pause. ” What had happened to it then ? ” 

” When the mob broke in that day, the mob which she 
had to face alone — ^picture it, de Kersaint ! — some ruffian 
with a pike dashed his weapon through it. No doubt he 
would have liked ” 

” Who told you that — about the portrait ? ” interrupted 
the Marquis, setting down his glass. He had not drunk ; 
and this time there was a stain on the cloth. 

” Who told me ? — ^The concierge,” replied M. de Bren- 
CQurt after a second’s hesitation. 

” Ah, this concierge about whom you are so unwilling 
to teU me an5^hing, although the Abba’s success or failure 
may possibly depend upon her.” 

” Unwilling — I ! ” exclaimed the Comte harshly. ” There 
is nothing to tell. She did not save me, like Roland.” 
A sneer crept into his voice. ” And probably in Roland’s 
case it was merely that he is a taking youth, and she felt 

compassion for him, or ” An idea seemed suddenly 

to come into his mind that struck him silent for a moment ; 
then with half a laugh he muttered, “No, morbleu, it 
could hardly have been that ! On the contrary ! ” 

” You are mysterious,” observed his leader coldly. 
” And I repeat that, since you knew this friendly woman 
to be in charge at Mirabel, I cannot understand your trying 
to dissuade me from a further attempt on the treasure.” 

M. de Brencourt looked at the ceiling. ” Possibly you 
cannot,” he returned very slowly. ” But I remembered 


224 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


that one woman had already gone to prison — and worse 
— from Mirabel, and I did not * 

The Marquis leant forward. ** Do you mean to insinu- 
ate,** he said hotly, ** that I wish to make use of a woman 
and leave her to pay ? Because if so. Monsieur de Bren- 
court -** 

He checked himself abruptly. ** Come in ! ** 

The knock at the door had heralded Lucien du Boisfoss^, 
who stood there saluting and signifying that the chef de 
canton called * Sinceree * had sent a messenger who would 
hke to speak to the General at once. 

Show him up,** said M. de Kersaint. No — wait ! 
ril see him downstairs. Excuse me, Comte.** And he 
was gone. 

M. de Brencourt looked after him with an unpleasant 
smile ; then he poured himself out another glass of wine 
and drank it down. 

Next evening M. du Menars and another officer were also 
at supper. 


CHAPTER III 

M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR HIMSELF 
(l) 

Lucien DU Boisfosse and Artamene de la Vergne would 
not have been themselves — ^particularly Artamene — 
they had not remarked, during the next few days, that a 
state of curious restraint had come into existence between 
their leader and his chief of staff, the Comte de Brencourt. 
Indeed, apart from any intercourse that he held with M. 
de Kersaint, no one could fail to see that the Comte had 
returned from his mission another and a much less agree- 
able person. As Artamene remarked, he had never been 
genial in his manners, but at least he had some manners ; 
now he seemed to have left them with the abandoned 
treasure at Mirabel. His moodiness and irritability vented 
themselves on all his subordinates, and he would harry 
gentleman and peasant alike for not saluting with sufficient 
precision, or not mounting guard properly. Indeed, the 
Chevalier de la Vergne opined that there might be a mutiny 
among the Chouans, caused for no other reason than that 
M. de Brencourt had something on his mind — ^was ronge 
with something or other, as he put it. 

To what it could be that was thus gnawing at him the 
two young men then applied their wits, and, suddenly 
remembering that night at Hennebont, arrived without 
much trouble at a theory not very far removed from the 
truth. With the facile, half-contemptuous pity of youth, 
they threw a hasty crumb of sympathy to the elder man, 
obliged to return to the house where had lived the murdered 
lady for whom he had then confessed his admiration. 
Still, they wished it had not made him so unpleasant 

But Artus de Brencourt was to be pitied — and condemned 
— ^for reasons more acute than * les jeunes ' had divined. 

He had come back to the Clos-aux-Grives after his escape 
from prison not only because, in the position he held, it 

p (MS 


226 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


was his plain duty to do so, but also because even a mom 
entary return to Mirabel, where all his desire was set, 
would most certainly have involved Mme de Trelan in 
suspicion, or so he considered. Madly as he craved to see 
her again, his love was sufficiently unselfish to shrink from 
that. But he had by no means abandoned his intention 
of breaking down her opposition to his suit. When he got 
back to Finistere, and found that the Abb4 had been 
despatched to Mirabel in spite of his letter of dissuasion 
(which had been prompted in reality less by fear for her 
safety than by anxiety about the preservation of her 
incognito) he decided that he must wait at the Clos aux- 
Grives till the latter’s return, for, successful or unsuccessful, 
the priest would certainly bring some information about 
the concierge and the state of affairs at the chateau. Then 
he could make up his mind to his next move. 

But there were tormenting elements in this course. If 
the Abbe proved unsuccessful in his quest, it was quite 
hkely — ^having regard to the issues for Finistere hanging 
on the securing of the gold — that the Marquis himself 
would resolve to go after it, and then. ... Or again, 
suppose that M. Chassin were successful, and that his 
very success brought “ Mme Vidal ” into suspicion ? 
Prison at least would face her again — possibly deportation. 
Or, almost worst of all, suppose the self-contained little 
priest, anything but a fool, and deep, as he always suspected, 
in de Kersaint’s confidence, should discover who she was. 
What was there, indeed, to prevent her telling him ? It 
was hardly surprising that during these days of suspense 
M. de Brencourt developed into a martinet. 

For he had besides to endure the close daily companion- 
ship of the man he hated, envied, pretended to despise, 
admired, the man who — so he chose to put it — ^had deserted 
Valentine, the man who nevertheless had had for nineteen 
years the rights 6f a husband and to whom perhaps she 
was, in spite of everything, not indifferent. Had she not 
all but swooned at the news of his death, though he had so 
completely cast her off ? That she might conceivably 
care for Gaston de Trelan still, that was the horrible doubt 
which gnawed at the Comte’s heart — almost more than a 
doubt in the hours when he allowed himself to realise how 
little foundation he had for the charges which he had 


M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR HIMSELF 227 

made against the Due. But he fed himself on those 
accusations till he had come almost to believe in their 
truth. They must be true — else why had he found Mme 
de Trelan under a false name, in an inconceivable situation, 
and ignorant whether her husband were alive or dead ? 
He must have treated her abominably, or she would long 
ago have taken steps to join him ! And now that, since 
his visit to Mirabel, suspicion as to de Kersaint’s identity 
existed no longer, for he knew, the perpetual craving to 
wound, to avenge himself — and her — together with the 
intoxicating consciousness of the secret which he held, and 
which he meant to keep for ever from the one man on 
earth who had a right to know it, and to whom it would 
mean, as he guessed, at the lowest estimation release from 
hell, and perhaps much more — all these were driving him 
insensibly to a precipice which now he could see gaping 
in front of him and that other man almost with joy, for 
even if both of them fell over it he cared little, provided 
they fell together. 

The last day or two had lent a more sinister purpose 
to his gibes. It began to be clear to him that he could not 
even wait for the Abbe’s return, which might take place 
any day now. For what if he brought the news of the 
presence at Mirabel of something far more wonderful and 
precious than what he had gone to search for ? AU would 
be over then ; he would certainly go to her. . . . The 
prospect was intolerable ; the only way to render it 
impossible of realisation was to provoke de Kersaint — ^if 
he could — before the priest’s return. And despite the 
astonishing armour of self-control which the Marquis 
had succeeded in buckling on, the latter was beginning 
to lose patience at last. 

The Comte saw it, and hugged the knowledge. Every- 
thing that he could say, short of direct personal insult, 
he had said to him whenever he had the chance, during 
the last four days. And he knew that his victim, unless 
he revealed his identity, was helpless to do more than 
resent his insinuations, since they were all directed against 
that presumably absent person, the Due de Trelan. But 
the veil was wearing very thin now. The hour would soon 
come when the man who had woven it would be forced 
to tear it asunder with his own hands. 


228 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


( 2 ) 

It had been a tr5dng day, sultry, and overshadowed by 
the threat of thunder -mthout its relief. A despatch had 
come too from a subordinate to say that the zeal of the 
recruits in his region was sensibly diminishing because 
only one in four could be armed. As usual for the last 
three nights, there had been one or two other officers to 
supper. M. de Brencourt could smile, now, at that effort 
at self-protection on the Marquis’s part. Hatred, hke 
love, will find out the way. Yet he had not hoped that 
he could bring about the explosion that very evening. 

After the other officers had withdrawn and the supper 
dishes were removed, M. de Kersaint was obliged to consult 
his chief of staff about the news which had just arrived. 
Nor, to do him justice, did the Comte de Brencourt give 
to the matter in hand much less attention than he would 
have done had their relations been perfectly normal. 

At the end M. de Kersaint remarked that unless the 
gold from Mirabel was in their hands soon it would come 
too late to be of use. 

“You have not heard further from the Abbe then ? ’’ 
asked his second-in-command, though he was aware that 
he had not. 

“ Not a word.” 

“ He may be arrested — the whole attempt a failure then, 
for aU we know ? “ 

“Yes,” said de Kersaint with a little sigh. “ And with 
it the best of our hopes for Finistere.” 

De Brencourt shook his head in an affectation of sym- 
pathy. 

“ I wonder you can sleep at night. Marquis, with so 
much on your mind ! “ 

The proud grey eyes met his. “ I do not find it difficult, 
thanks,” returned his leader drily, and he got up and went 
to the window, where he pulled aside the rough curtain 
and looked out. Moonlight came in when he did so. 

The Comte made a movement as though to go, but he 
still lingered, his eyes fixed on the back turned to him. 

“ It begins to look as if Mirabel had proved as fatal to 
the Abbe as to Roland and myself and ... its late 
mistress,” he observed. 


M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR HIMSELF 229 

“ We must hope not,” replied the Marquis after a moment, 
drumming liglitly on the window pane. 

” I feel sure,” went on the Comte, ” that, from what I 
have heard of him, de Trelan's remorse over that business 
— assuming that he felt any — would be due rather to the 
damage suffered by his own reputation than to any affection 
for his wife. Don’t you think that is probable, de Ker- 
saint ? ” 

The man at the vdndow suddenly flung open the case- 
ment as though he needed air. And indeed there was 
sweat on his forehead. 

“ By the way,” pursued his tormentor, as though struck 
by a sudden idea, ” I don't believe I ever asked you, Mar- 
quis, who was de Troian's heir ? He had no legitimate 
children, I fancy ? ” 

There was a momentary pause. 

” No,” said M. de Kersaint, without moving. “ The Due 
de Savary-Lancosme, his cousin-german, would have come 
into most of his property.” And he shut the window again. 

” Is Savary-Lancosme alive ? ” 

” He was guillotined in ’94.” 

” Humph. He must sleep more soundly, then, than 
his cousin.” 

The Marquis de Kersaint dropped the curtain over the 
moonlit casement and half turned round. ” I really do 
not know why he should,” he said shortly, yet speaking, 
as was evident, with the most careful self-restraint. ” Sh^ 
we say good-night now, Comte ? ” 

A very little more and he might do it, if he could only 
hit on the right thing. So, instead of taking this broad 
hint, the Comte de Brencourt sat down carelessly on the 
table. 

” I wonder,” he observed slowly, and with a sort of 
casual reflectiveness, ” if that was the reason of de Trelan’s 
. . . poltroonery.” 

He waited, after that last substantive, either for an 
explosion, or for a question as to what he meant. Neither 
came. But, glancing across the zone of lamplight to the 
window, he saw the smitten rigidity of his victim, and was 
filled with hope. 

I mean,” he explained, ” the fact of the late Duchesse’s 
childlessness. . . P^)ar lady 1 ” 


230 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Luck had served him far better than he could ever know. 
He had stabbed at the rawest wound of all, the most 
torturing memory. The Marquis swung round with 
clenched hands. 

“ And who gave you the right to make suppositions 
about the private affairs of the Due and Duchesse de Trelan, 
Monsieur ? ” he demanded in a voice of hardly suppressed 
fury. 

The Comte got off the table and looked at him. 

“ The same Fates, I imagine," he answered coolly, 
which caused the Duchesse to stand, in her hfetime, 
so sadly in need of some champion, by making her husband 
what he was — ^what he is ! " 

And at that the string snapped entirely. M. de Kersaint 
strode round the table. " Mort de ma vie ! this is insuffer- 
able ! Monsieur de Brencourt, I have borne insolence and 
innuendo from you long enough ! I have been far too 
patient " 

" The innuendo. Monsieur," broke in de Brencourt 
with a grim exultation, “ the innuendo, since you term it 
so, shall be dropped. God knows I desire nothing better ! 
An5rthing that I have said of the Due de Trelan I will 
repeat to the Due de Trelan’s face. You cannot retort 
that that is an idle boast ! Have I not recently seen a 
certain portrait in primrose satin at Mirabel ? " 

The original of that portrait put his hand for a second 
over his eyes. But it was only for a second ; then he faced 
his enemy, his head high, and said, with blazing scorn, 

" It is an idle boast, and a cowardly ! You have insulted 
me past endurance — ^have gone on doing it — and yet you 
know I cannot demand satisfaction. Is that chivalry ? " 
" Cannot demand satisfaction ? " cried the Comte de 
Brencourt with a sneer. " And why not, pray ? Are you 
stiU intent on keeping up the farce of the Due de Trelan's 
being somewhere far away — somewhere safe — somewhere 
where you have to write letters to him . . . the farce of 
his not being in this very room, standing on the identical 
spot you are standing on now ? " 

" You know I do not mean that ! " retorted M. de Ker- 
saint, white with fury. " I mean that you have gone on 
in your underhand and venomous persecution, knowing 
that, placed in such a position as mine, I could not call you 


M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR HIMSELF 231 

to account for it. You have done a despicable thing 
knowing that you were safe from consequences, but 
some day — ^some day, by God, — ^you shall give me full 
reparation for your conduct ! 

The Comte, darkly flushed, was gripping the hilt of his 
sword with his left hand. “ I will give it you to-night — • 
with aU my heart ! ’'he said between his teeth. 

" Do not be absurd. Monsieur ! ” said his leader sharply. 
** You are beside yourself to suggest such a thing. How 
could we go out, you and I, the general and the second-in- 
command of the army of Finistere ! The whole of the 
West would ring with the scandal. We must part, that 
is plain, but we cannot fight . . . unfortunately.” 

The Comte saw the precipice receding. He gathered 
himself together for a final effort. 

” Then, Monsieur le Due de Trelan,” he said, give me 
leave to tell you that, my opinion of your past behaviour 
being unchanged, I must now add to it what I think of 
your present. You have not redeemed yourself by these 
last years — ^by that business of Rivoli and the rest. You 
are, as you always were . . . un Idche ! ” 

He had reached his goal. That intolerable word, 
delivered moreover hke the sting of a whip, was too much 
for the determination of the proud nature at which it was 
flung. ' 

” Will you fight me now ? ” asked de Brencourt, watch- 
ing him. 

“ Yes ! ” said Gaston de Trelan with a gasp, and, as 
though to seal his reversed decision and make it impossible 
to withdraw from it, he struck the Comte with the back of 
his hand, but quite lightly, across the mouth. 

” Thank you ! ” said the latter, apparently accepting 
the formal blow in the same spirit. ” I thought you would 
see reason in the end.” He passed his handkerchief across 
his lips and became business-like. ” We cannot fight here, 
that is plain. And we must dispense with seconds.” 

” There is a full moon,” said the Due de‘ Trelan curtly. 
“ We must go to the forest. By that dolmen they call the 
Moulin-aux-Fees would serve. There is a level clearing 
there.” 

“Yes, that would serve admirably. We must provide 
some excuse — say we are anxious to make a reconnaissance 


232 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


or something of the kind — since I suppose it is impossible 
to get out without being seen. Nobody should suspect 
. . . unless one of us does not come back. Then it will be 
— ^the work of some lurking Republican.” 

M. de Kersaint nodded. ” And the weapons ? Swords, 
I presume.” 

” I should prefer swords,” said his adversary. ” Un- 
fortunately ” — ^he looked doubtfully at his right hand — ” I 
am afraid that since the affair of la Croix-Fendue my wrist 
is still too stiff for anything so delicate as sword-play.” 

” I had forgotten that. It must be pistols then. We 
shall have to go further off, that is all. Who is officer of 
the guard to-night ? ” 

” Young La Vergne, I am afraid,” said the Comte. 

The Marquis consulted his watch. ” Shall we say in 
half an hour, then ? ” he suggested. ” I have one or two 
matters that I must set in order, in case I fall ; you doubt- 
less the same. And if I fall, Comte, the command devolves 
naturally on you — at least till you hear from Edinburgh. 
Possibly you would be confirm^ in the command of Fin- 
ist^e.” He spoke quite dispassionately, as if he were one 
of the seconds in whose hands, had not the circum- 
stances been unusual, the conduct of the affair would have 
rested, and going to the little travelling safe began to 
unlock it. De Brencourt picked up some papers he had 
brought with him and went to the door. 

” You have only to mark anything you wish ‘ Private,' 
and I give you my word it shall be burnt unread,” he 
observ^. ” I for my part shall rely on a similar considera- 
tion.” On him, too, rested the same forced composure. 

” You may do so. Monsieur,” said the Marquis, without 
looking round. ” There will be nothing private here, 
however, but a couple of letters that I am going to write 
now. You will find, on the other hand, a number of papers 
that wall be essential to you if you have to take over the 
command. I will just see that they are in order. — ^Will you 
come back for me in half an hour, then ? ” 

” Yes,” said the Comte, and, something impelling him 
to salute, perhaps for the last time, the leader he hoped to 
kill, he did so and went out. 

The moment that the door closed behind his enemy 
Gaston de Troian drew a long, almost a sobbing breath. 


M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR HIMSELF 233 

and bending his head stood gripping the edge of the safe 
with both hands. He had had such a hard fight of it 
. . . and he was beaten after all. But the consuming 
rage that shook him left no room now for consciousness of 
defeat ; and that rage, so overpowering for a moment or 
two as to make him feel physically faint, gave way in its 
turn to a savage gladness. For duty’s sake, and at almost 
unbearable cost to himself, he had tried to avoid this thing 
— ^but now that it had come, and he was going to settle the 
score, what place was there for anything but a measureless 
relief ? Good God, because he commanded Finistere, 
was he to submit to a series of insults without parallel ? 

After a few minutes he loosed his hold of the safe, sat 
down at the table, pulled writing-materials towards him, 
and began to write rapidly. Thrusting his hand inside 
his shirt when he had finished, he brought out and 
slipped over his head something which hung round his 
neck on a ribbon. It was a white, gold-edged cross with a 
red medallion in the centre surrounded b / a border ( f 
white and gold — ^the cross of the Order of Maria Theresa, 
never given save for personal valour in the field. Around the 
medalhon ran the single word, “ FortUudini” He placed 
the decoration in the letter, which he sealed and addressed 
to Monsieur le Vicomte de Celigny,” writing under- 
neath, “ Not to be opened except in the event of my death.” 
This done, he wrote another which he address^ to the 
Abbe Chassin, and took them both to put in the safe; 
Standing by that receptacle he then sorted through some 
papers and locked it up again. Then he took his pistols 
from their case, oiled them very carefully, loaded them, 
and laid them on the table. 

There were still five minutes or so before he went out 
to use them. He stood looking down at them a Uttle. 
Then he went slowly to the fireplace and laid his head 
on his folded arms on the mantel. It was bitter to be 
driven to this, just when he was on the eve of making his 
work in Finistere a success. To-morrow, if he Hved, 
he might hear that the money from Mirabel was truly his 
— ^for the Cause — ^but to-night he must expose himself 
to the chance of being killed by this man who had been 
trying for days to provoke him. Well, God knew he had 
done his utmost that he should not succeed — ^but there 


234 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


was a limit to what could be borne by flesh and blood. 
Would not even she have said so, for whose memory’s 
sake he had tried to do something worthy of a man ? 
. . . But if he fell, what a way to fall — in a quarrel with 
his own chief of staff ? 

Then it came back upon him like a flood that his enemy 
had dared to use her sacred name as a cover for his own 
unspeakable insolence, and regret and reluctance were 
gone as though they had never been. He would kill de 
Brencourt for that ! He went back to the table and took 
up his pistols. 

It was time indeed, for as he pushed the first into his 
belt there came a tap at the door, and the Comte reappeared. 

“ Are you ready ? ” he asked in a low voice. 

The Marquis, with a face like flint, nodded and took 
up the second pistol. But M. de Brencourt closed the 
door behind him. 

“ Before we go," he said, “ would it not be as well to 
settle the distance and the order of firing ? We might 
do that as conveniently here as in the forest." 

“ Certainly," agreed his adversary. The less time we 
spend there the better." 

Ten paces, then ? " suggested the other. Moonlight 
is not daylight." (But, even in the moonlight, it would 
surely be impossible to miss at ten paces.) 

“ Very well," agreed M. de Kersaint indifferently. 
“ Across a handkerchief, if you like — only there are no 
seconds to hold it for us." 

“ No, and that is the other point," said the Comte de 
Brencourt with some eagerness. " Since there is no one 
to count for us, or to make any signal, we cannot with the 
best will in the world be sure of firing at exactly the same 
moment. I suggest, therefore, that we draw lots to deter- 
mine who is to fire first." 

There was a second’s pause. The Marquis had not 
faced this difficulty. But of course some such reliance on 
a hazard was inevitable. " That would certainly be 
best," he replied, looking steadily at its proposer. " There 
might, too, in that case, be only one shot to attract atten- 
tion," 

" Quite so. How shall we settle it then ? ’’ asked the 
Comte, looking round the room. 


M. DE KERSAINT ANSWERS FOR HIMSELF 235 

** I have it,” said his opponent rather grimly, plunging 
a hand into a pocket. ” A very simple way, if somewhat 
childish. You see this coin ? ” And he held out on his 
open palm a florin of the last issue of Louis XVI. ” I will 
put my hands behind my back, and when I bring them 
closed into sight again you shall guess which of them 
contains the florin. If you guess rightly the first shot 
shall be yours — ^if you guess wrongly, mine. Are you 
content ? Or would you prefer to hold the coin and I will 
guess ? But I think the odds are just the same either 
way.” 

” No, I am perfectly content that you should hold it,” 
rephed his foe. So, standing there in the lamplight, the 
Marquis de Kersaint, commanding in chief for the King in 
Finistere, and in past days, when he bore another name, 
a very great gentleman indeed, put his hands behind him 
in the way that children have done for centuries, with 
not the fate of a game but his own, perhaps, hanging 
on the choice. In another moment he brought his closed 
fists in front of him again and looked at M. de Brencourt. 

” I choose the left hand,” said the Comte. 

M. de Kersaint opened his fingers. The silver effigy 
lay in his palm. His life was M. de Brencourt’s for the 
taking. 

” Let us go, then,” he said, and turned down the lamp. 


CHAPTER IV 

A MOONLIGHT WALK IN THE FOREST 
(l) 

Thousands of years before, the ancient and forgotten race, 
drowned now in the mists of time, which had set up in 
those parts the long ranks of menhirs on the lande, had 
raised in the forest, over the remains of some dead chief- 
tain, a great dolmen of granite. The death-chamber 
had long ago been rifled of bones and treasure, but it still 
stood, no different from what it had been for the last few 
hundred years, with ferns growing out of the cracks, and 
one of its supports prone, and an aged oak, immeasurably 
younger than itself, watching over it. And to this spot 
the two men, with passions no less primitive in their hearts, 
made their way ; for on one side of the Moulin-aux-Fees, 
as the peasants called it, there was a little clearing. 

It was true that M. de Kersaint had said, when pistols 
were named, that they must go further than this. But 
when they beheld the clearing, so inviting in the cold hght 
that flooded it from a moon well over the tree tops, its 
suitabihty to the work they had in hand struck both of 
them so strongly that they agreed it was not necessary to 
go on. They had already put a considerable distance 
between them and the Clos-aux-Grives, and the httle 
wind that walked the forest to-night had its light feet set 
in the opposite direction. They would risk the sound of a 
shot carrying back to the farm. 

So, under the impassive gaze of the moon, which alone 
made their culpable proceedings possible at this hour, 
they measured out ten paces, first one of them, then the 
other, and set each a bit of dead branch to mark their 
respective positions. When this was done to their satisfac- 
tion they found themselves standing at the Comte’s mark 
examining their pistols for the last time. 

** I shall not cock mine until you have fired, Monsieur," 
236 


A MOONLIGHT WALK IN THE FOREST 237 

announced the Marquis. ** If there were to be an accident 
— such things have happened — ^you might think I had 
broken our compact.** 

** I have no fear, Monsieur, of an accident of that kind,*' 
returned de Brencourt, buttoning his coat up to the throat 
as he spoke. “ However, as you please — But you are 
surely going to take off that white scarf of yours ? ** And 
as the Marquis looked down a little doubtfully at the 
white scarf of leadership round his waist, his opponent 
added hotly, “ Good God, man, do you think I am going 
to stand up and fire at you unless you do ? It would be 
murder ! And your sword — ^the hilt catches the moon- 
light.** His own lay already at his feet. 

Very well," agreed the Marquis, and began, almost, 
‘ it seemed reluctantly, to detach the scarf. Having un- 
wound it he paused with it in his hand. 

" I have a request to make of you, Comte, before I go 
to my place,*’ he said, not altogether in the tone of one 
making a request. " The disagreement between us being 
a purely personal matter, I should be glad to have your 
word that you intend to respect my secret, whatever the 
result of our encounter ? ** 

De Brencourt looked at him. It was some satisfaction 
to have him begging for terms — ^no, begging was certainly 
not the word for one who spoke like that. 

** Yes, I promise you that,** he answered. " Whatever 
the result of our encounter, I will keep your secret as far 
as in me lies." 

" Thank you,** returned his adversary. And, throwing 
the white scarf from him, he turned and walked to his 
place. 

Artus de Brencourt waited a second or two, his pistol 
by his side. This was the moment he had hoped and 
schemed for, and it was sweet. Yet now that it had 
come, it suddenly seemed incredible that they two should 
be facing each other like this. A few months ago, who 
would have predicted it ? ... No use to think of that 
now, nor, since he was a gentleman, with his enemy’s life 
in his hands, did he desire to keep that enemy in mortal 
suspense longer than was needful. Best be as quick about 
the business as possible. He was a notoriously good 
^ot. . . . 


238 


THE YELLOW I OPPY 


“ Are you ready ? ” he called out. 

And the Marquis de Kersaint, standing like a dark statue 
in the moonlight, his face merely a pale blur, his arms 
folded on his breast, silently nodded. 

The Comte de Brencourt drew a deep breath, raised his 
pistol, and took a long and steady aim for the statue’s 
heart. 

Yet when he had got the barrel on the mark his hand 
began to shake. He bit his lip. If only de Kersaint had 
his own weapon cocked, were not standing there 
defenceless to be shot at by the man who had insulted him. 
It took some courage to do that ! And he had called him 
a coward. . . . Had it not been an affair of honour it had 
felt a httle too much like murder for his taste after all. 
Yet he intended to kill Valentine’s husband. And the 
iron sanction of the code which kept the other there as a 
mere target for his bullet kept him there too, determined 
to complete his work. 

. . . But — could he complete it ? The Comte had no idea 
how deceptive even the most brilliant moonlight can be, 
for now, at a short ten paces’ distance, he found to his 
mortification that he could not really distinguish the out- 
line of de Kersaint’s body, though he could see it as a mass. 
That scarf would have been useful, yet it did not occur 
to him to regret it. Bending all his will anew to the task 
he succeeded in steadying his hand, and his forefinger 
began to close round the trigger. In another second or 
two. . . . Would the Marquis spin round, as a man some- 
times did when shot through the heart, or would he fall 
forward on his face ? . . . Odd that he should think, at 
such a moment, of the execution of Charette three years ago 
at Nantes, when, as the tale went, the indomitable spirit 
that dwelt in the riddled body of the Royalist chief had 
held him upright for a moment in death, with six balls in 
him. De Kersaint would have but one — sent there by 
a comrade. He, Artus de Brencourt, was doing the 
Directory’s work for them ! . . . No, he was doing Valen- 
tine’s ! One vision of her as he had seen her in her homely 
dress at Mirabel, one fleeting thought of those years of 
neglect before the storm, of the life she had led since, and 
those half regrets were swept aside like gnats before a gale. 
The baffling moonlight paralysed him no longer. He 


A MOONLIGHT WALK IN THE FOREST 239 

corrected his aim for the second time, set his teeth, and 
pressed the trigger. 

The shot went echoing with starthng effect in the silver 
silence ; it seemed to reverberate even from the empty 
dolmen. A scuttling of some frightened creature took 
place in the undergrowth, and, as the light smoke cleared 
away, rising ghostlike towards the moon, the Comte saw 
that M. de Kersaint was staggering a little. He took a 
step backwards, threw out his left arm and regained his 
balance somewhat abruptly, while the uncocked pistol 
slid with a rustle and a thud into the bracken at his feet. 
Either to recover it, or because he could not help himself, 
he sank to one knee and appeared to be groping for it 
with his left hand ; then, abandoning the attempt, he got 
rather unsteadily to his feet again, and stood a moment 
with his head bent, and his right arm still across his breast, 
where he had kept it all the time. 

** You are hit. Monsieur ? Can you not return my fire ? 
called out de Brencourt, still standing ready to receive it. 

M. de Kersaint shook his head, then, turning his back 
on him, walked to the nearest tree and stood leaning 
against it, always holding his right arm to his breast, but 
now supporting it with the other. A doubtless annoyed 
owl sailed out of the branches above him with a hoot. 

And, after all, his adversary never even paused to ask 
himself whether he were sorry he had not succeeded. . . In 
a moment he was at his side. 

Where are you hit. Monsieur le Marquis ? ’* 

** In my right arm,’* said his opponent briefly. ** You 
have disabled me. I cannot return your fire.*’ 

“ I am sorry for that,** said the Comte rather stiffly. 
" Are you sure you cannot — ^with your left hand ? ** 

** I am sorry too,** said the Marquis de Kersaint, lifting 
his head. Believe me, I should not have done you the 
poor compliment of firing in the air ! But it would be a 
farce — ^my left hand. I am extremely right-handed ; so 
of what use to risk the noise of another shot. I fancy 
my arm is broken. Let us get back.” He did not seem 
to know that, even as he spoke, the blood, very dark in the 
moonlight, was running through the fingers of the hand 
which held his wounded arm pressed up to his body. 


240 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** But first,’* interposed the Comte quickly, ” we must 
stop this bleeding, however roughly. It is not from the 
artery, I trust ? — no, I think not. Can you take your 
coat off . . . I’d better slit up the sleeve, in any case. 
Sit down on this stone, de Kersaint ; that will be easier 
for both of us." 

And, supporting him under his left arm, he guided his 
wounded enemy to the fallen block of the dolmen. 

The Marquis sat down obediently, and lent his head for 
a moment on his left hand. It was evident, though not a 
soimd passed his lips, that he was in a good deal of pain. 

"No, don’t do that, Comte ! ’’ he said suddenly, as 
de Brencourt, kneeling by him in the fern, began to take 
out a knife. " One doesn’t want to make more . . . parade 
. . . about this business than one can avoid. Help me 
out of the coat instead." And he began to unbutton it. 

" Much better let me sht the sleeve," objected de Bren- 
court with reason. However, seeing that the Marquis 
was determined, he unfastened his swordbelt, and as 
carefully as he could, stripped off the long uniform coat. 

" I suppose you don’t wish to preserve this ? " he re- 
marked, and, ripping up the drenched shirt-sleeve, exam- 
ined the injury. In the outer side of the Marquis de 
Kersaint's forearm, midway between wrist and elbow, 
was a small round aperture, from which the blood was 
welling in a stream so steady as to suggest that it would 
never cease. 

" The baU is still there, of course," observed its sender, 

absorbed in his examination. " Otherwise ’’ He 

came to an abrupt pause, suddenly realising by how very 
httle his messenger of death had fallen short of its goal. 

" Otherwise it would be in my heart, you were going to 
say," finished the Marquis with composure. 

" Perhaps it was stopped by one of the bones," muttered 
de Brencourt, avoiding his eye. " I expect there is a 
breakage, as you say. . . . However, I had best tie it up 
as quickly as possible. I shall need your handkerchief as 
well as mine — perhaps your scarf too. It is bleeding hke 
a fountain." 

Carefully as a surgeon, and with something of a surgeon’s 
dispassionate interest, he staunched and bandaged the 
injury which he himself had made — no bad exemplar. 


A MOONLIGHT WALK IN THE FOREST 241 

at that moment, of what there was gallant and chivalrous 
in a practice which had little enough to commend it. 

^ there was only one shot after ail,” observed M. 
de Kersaint presently. ” Did you mean to kill me, 
Comte ? ” 

M. de Brencourt, tightening the last knot, looked at 
him vdth an odd expression. ” Yes,” he replied. 

” I thought so,” returned the Marquis coolly. ” I am 
afraid, then, that this must have been somewhat of a 
disappointment. You take it very well. It was the 
moonlight, I suppose ? In many ways I should have 
been glad of your success.” 

A dark flush ran over his opponent’s face. He made no 
reply, and laying down the bandaged arm gently on its 
possessor's knee, began to scrub at his own bloody hands 
with a frond of bracken. When he had got them com- 
paratively clean he threw it away, got up from his knees, 
took a turn or two and came back. 

” Marquis,” he said, rather stiffly, ” I aimed as well as 
I could. Evidently it was not to be. . . . And now, if you 
will allow me, I should like to take back the term I applied 
to you this evening. It is not applicable — and I do not 
think that I ever believed it was. But I meant you to 
fight me. You can guess why . . . and we need not go 
into what is done with. . . . And now that we have met, 
and blood has flowed — and I sincerely regret, as I said, 
that it should be yours alone ” He stopped. 

The Marquis de Kersaint, still without his coat, got up 
from the fallen stone. To him also a duel was sacramental, 
and bloodshed, at the risk of life, did serve, between 
gentlemen, to wash out enmity. To what degree, however, 
that stain was ineffaceable, they could hardly know then, 
for they were both moved, little as they showed it, by the 
near passage of the dark angel. 

” Thank you, M. de Brencourt,*' be said quietly. ” Allow 
me to apologise, in my turn, for the blow I struck you — 
— though I think you understand why I struck. I am 
quite willing to take your hand if you are willing to take 
mine ; indeed, I was going to propose that, as neither of 
us after aU is to remain permanently beside the Moulin- 
aux-Fte, we had better try, for the King’s sake, to forget, 
if we can, what has passed between us. I at least am 

Q 


242 THE YELLOW POPPY 

content to try. I do not wish to change my second-in- 
command.'' 

“ Nor I to change my leader ! " cried the Comte, really 
shaken by the generosity which could forget his deliberate 
campaign of insults. He too held out his left hand, and 
they sealed the compact. Perhaps at the moment he 
almost forgot how much less complete the covenant was 
than the other imagined — forgot what he was holding 
back and meant to go on holding back. . . 

“ And now," he said, recovering himself, if you insist 
on getting into that sleeve again." He picked up the 
redingote. “ It is a long way back — at least I fear you will 
find it so, de Kersaint." 

“ I only wish it were longer," said the Marquis, with a 
little frown. " They have such sharp ears, those young 
men of mine — I do not think the bone is broken after aU. 
Help me into my coat, and lend me your arm, and I shall 
do very well." 

(2) 

The Clos-aux-Grives at last, white in the moonlight, 
between the sparser trees of the forest’s verge. It was 
high time. But before the duellists were quite near 
enough to give the countersign to the sentry, whose 
challenge had just rung out, a figure from within the court- 
yard, shouting something to him, vaulted the low wall by 
the Chouan and raced towards them. So vehement was 
its haste that the two gentlemen stopped. It was then 
seen that the athlete was the Chevalier de la Vergne, in 
such a hurry that he had hardly time to pull himself up and 
to salute. 

" I saw you coming. Monsieur le Marquis,” he exclaimed 
breathlessly. " There is great news — M. I’Abb^ has come 
back ! . . . What, are you hurt, sir ! " 

(" Damnation ! " said the Comte de Brencourt under 
his breath.) 

" Yes, a trifle," returned the Marquis carelessly. A 
stray Blue in the forest ; nothing to worry about. 
Come, Comte, let us go and welcome the Abbe. This is 
indeed good news — if it means his success." And, loosing 
the Comte’s arm, as much, perhaps, to show his ability 
to do so as because the Comte displayed a tendency to be 
rooted to the spot, he began to walk towards the entrance. 


A MOONLIGHT WALK IN THE FOREST 243 

** O, Monsieur le Marquis/' exclaimed the young officer, 
accompanying him, are you sure that it is not much ? 
Why, I can see the blood on your sleeve. . . . and on 
your breast too ! Take my arm, de grSce, — and you will 
let me turn out the guard at once, will you not ? " 

That is unnecessary, my dear boy,” replied his leader ; 

so is your support. M. de Brencourt settled the Blue 
for me. — Good-night, Sans-Souci,” he said, as the sentry 
presented arms. 

” But you will not find the Blue, La Vergne — ^he got 
away after all,” added the Comte quickly from behind. 
To him the duel was a secondary matter now — and, in 
itself, the Abbe's success or failure also. What other 
information had the priest brought from Mirabel . . . and 
how soon would he divulge it ? Would it be possible to 
see him before de Trelan did ? Hardly . . . 

And where is M. Chassin ? ” enquired M. de Kersaint 
directly they got inside, when the light from the sconce 
on the wall instantly betrayed to Artamene’s distressed 
but ever observant eyes how pale he was — and with a 
smear of blood on his cheek too. ” In my room ? — ^then 
I will see him at once.” 

” Let me light you up the staircase. Messieurs ! ” cried 
the zealous Artamene, taking down the sconce. 

” Are not the stairs lighted as usual ? ” asked the Comte 
irritably. ” Yes, of course they are. No, go to your 
bed. La Vergne, and don’t harass M. de Kersaint any 
more ! ” 

“You forget. La Vergne is officer of the guard to-night,” 
said the Marquis with a little smile. “ Goodnight, my 
boy. Don’t bother about that Blue. As for my arm, 
the Abbe will do anything further that is necessary.” 

And he went off, followed by the Comte. Artamene 
looked after them, uttering wicked words below his breath ; 
then he replaced the sconce, tiptoed into the ‘‘ nursery,” 
and picked his way among the dozen or so slumbering 
forms there till he came to Lucien du Boisfosse’s pallet 
in a corner. 

“ Lucien, wake up ! ” he whispered, stooping over him 
and gently shaking him. “ I want to tell you something ! ” 

Astoundingly, Lucien opened his eyes at once. “ Don’t 
blow into my ear hke that, officer of the guard ! ” he re- 


244 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


turned. ** And there's no need to poke me so. I was 
awake. I have not been to sleep." 

" Great Heavens ! " ejaculated Artamdne. This was 
indeed an evening of surprises. 

" I was," said Lucien, complacently, " composing a 
proclamation in rhyme to the patauds of this canton. It 
was to begin " 

" Never mind that," cut in Artamene ruthlessly. " Two 
much more interesting things have happened while you 

have been asl 1 mean awake. The first is, that M. 

I'Abbe has returned from Mirabel " 

Lucien sat up in bed. " Laus Deo " he exclaimed. 

And has he got — it ? " 

" He wouldn’t tell me," said the enquirer, " but I think 
from his manner that he has not been unsuccessful. How- 
ever, the second thing is even more momentous. M. le 
Marquis and M. le Comte have just come back from a 
moonlight stroll in the direction of the forest, M. le Marquis 
as white as a sheet, with blood all over the sleeve of his 
coat and his right arm tucked into his breast." 

" Good God ! " ejaculated Lucien, boimding upon his 
couch. 

" Chut ! don't wake the others ! (It will be impossible 
to keep it quiet, though.) It appears that they met a 
Blue in the forest — or at any rate a Blue was in the forest, 
dropped, perhaps like an acorn from a tree, for I know not 
how otherwise he could have been there — and he shot at 
and wounded M. le Marquis — one doesn’t yet know how 
seriously — and then, apparently, M. de Brencourt settled 
the hash of the Blue. At least, he fired and hit him ; 
though he thinks the feUow got away. Now, what do you 
think of that for a Breton night’s entertainment ? Don’t 
sit on your bed looking like an owl. Monsieur du Bois- 
foss^ 1 ’’ 

" An owl," replied the young man unperturbed, " is 
the emblem of wisdom, also of us Chouans. I am thinking 
this, my Artamene, that while lying here engaged in the 
labours of composition, I heard, far away — so far away 
that I did not think it worth while disturbing the slumbers 
of the ofiicer of the guard " 

" Well, what did you hear ? " asked his friend, kicking 
him gently in return for this thrust. 


A MOONLIGHT WALK IN THE FOREST 245 

A shot— one shot,” replied Lucien. 

Artamene’s mobile face changed. ” Of course you will 
repeat that I was asleep, which is a lie. But I never heard 
it — ^nor the sentries, I presume, since none of them re- 
ported it.” 

” But, my dear friend,” enquired Lucien earnestly, 
” if I was able to hear one shot, why didn't I hear two ? ” 

They stared at each other in the dim light, these two 
young investigators, the one sitting up in his shirt on his 
pallet, the other, booted and sword-girt, kneeling beside 
him. 

” You mean,” said the latter after a moment, ” that if 
you heard the shot which this solitary Blue fired at M. le 
Marquis, why did you not hear the shot which M. de Bren- 
court fired at the Blue ? ” 

” That is my meaning,” responded Lucien weightily. 

” So that — provided you were not dreaming — ^there was 
only one shot fired . . . and that was fired at the Marquis.” 

Lucien nodded. ” Obviously, since he has been hit.” 

” And that shot could not have fired itself.” 

” It is usual to infer a finger on the trigger.” 

” The question is. Whose finger ? — No, Lucien, we had 
better not go any further ! As we have already said, there 
has been storm in the atmosphere lately. And this desire 
for exercise in the moonlight ! . . . Yet it must have been 
all en r^le, even though there were no witnesses, since 
they came back together on good terms — arm in arm, 
in fact. But for the Marquis to proceed to such an ex- 
tremity ! — I never did like M. de Brencourt ! ” 

” I think you are going too fast, mon ami,” remarked the 
soberer Lucien. ” They would never have chosen pistols, 
and risked being heard at headquarters.” 

” They seem to have chosen a pistol, however,” retorted 
Artamene. ” Whatever has happened, I am convinced that 
there has been the devil of a lot of lying done to-night . . . 
and that there will be even more to-morrow I ” 

” And who ” 

” Charlemagne, I regret to say,” responded his friend, 
shaking his head, ” — Charlemagne, who recently read me 
such a homily on truthfulness 1 ” 


CHAPTER V 

WHAT THE ABB6 THOUGHT OF IT 

Up in the Marquis de Kersaint’s room M. Pierre Chassin, 
priest and plotter, tired as he was, had been for some time 
pacing uneasily up and down. He had just returned from 
the mouth of the Seine and the successful despatch to 
England of the gold of Mirabel, which (as the agent in 
Paris at whose house it had been accumulating had indeed 
come under suspicion) the Abbe had had to pack up 
with exceeding haste, and take to the coast himself. But 
though he had just passed some agitated days and nights 
between Paris and Harfleur, the memory of them was as 
nothing to that of the shock and emotion he had experienced 
in the chapel at Mirabel. So that he was thinking at the 
moment scarcely at all of what he had so dexterously got 
out of the chateau, but of what he had left in it. And he was 
fairly distracted. 

For the twentieth time he cursed the contre-temps which 
had hurried him away from Mirabel in so untimely a 
fashion, before he had had opportunity to decide whether 
he ought or ought not to break his solemn promise to Gaston 
— ^that promise renewed at Hennebont. Now he saw 
clearly that it would have been right to break it, and that 
if he had only been granted a little longer there he would 
have done so. And had not such grave issues depended 
on his getting the money into safety he would willingly 
have risked his own personal liberty by remaining a few 
hours longer near the Duchesse ; he would even have 
returned to Mirabel when his errand was accomplished, but 
for the practical certainty of being arrested and thereby, 
probably, compromising her. Even now the idea had 
visited him of writing to her and revealing the Marquis de 
Kersaint’s identity. But that would indeed be confiding 
his foster-brother’s jealously-guarded secret to the birds 
of the air, for he could not use a cipher to Mme de Trelan, 

246 


WHAT THE ABBfi THOUGHT OF IT 247 

and the letter might be intercepted by the Government 
. . . and it might some day mean Gaston's life if the 
Directory knew who he really was. Still, she herself might 
write to the Marquis de Kersaint " to make enquiries. 
God grant it ! Or she might come in person, as he had so 
earnestly pressed. 

Yet, if only he had learnt her secret otherwise than 
under the seal of the confessional, when the knowledge 
might not be communicated, might not be used. If only 
he had had the wit to guess it ! But we only see what we 
have some grounds for believing that we shall see. . . . 
Here he was again, possessed of information he could not 
impart to the person vitally interested — only in this case 
time would never show him that he ought to disclose it. 
His lips were shut, absolutely, till eternity. Some other 
person must make the revelation — and the only other 
person who had the necessary knowledge was the Comte de 
Brencourt. 

And M. de Brencourt had escaped, was already back. 
Perhaps he had told Gaston by this time — for what more 
naturi than that the “ kinsman ” of the Due de Trelan 
should be immediately informed of a fact of such paramount 
importance to his relative ? Something, however, made 
the priest quite sure that M. de Brencourt had not taken 
this course— the remembrance of what he knew to be his 
deliberate lie to the Duchesse de Trelan. After viewing 
that lie from every side M. Chassin had come to a pretty 
correct estimate of the motive that had prompted it, and 
it did not raise his hopes of forcing the Comte to a revela- 
tion. Indeed, he almost wondered why M. de Brencourt 
had returned to the Clos-aux-Grives at all. 

He wondered, too, with a growing uneasiness, on what 
conceivable errand the two gentlemen could have gone out 
to-night, as, on his own arrival, the exhilarated Artamene 
had told him they had done. Why should they both go, 
at such an hour, and without the shadow of an escort ? 

Then he heard steps and voices in the passage, and stopped 
his pacing. They were back. His forebodings suddenly 
seemed ridiculous. The door was opened a little way. 

“ Thank you, de Brencourt. Good-night," said Gaston’s 
voice, with a ring of fatigue in it. “ No, thanks ; the 
Abbe will do anything that is necessary." And he came in. 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


248 

The light in the room, emanating from a somewhat 
smoky lamp, did not instantly reveal his state, and he 
said, in a quite natural manner, “ My dear Pierre ! This is 
indeed good ! And I am to congratulate you, I think ? ” 
M. Chassin had advanced round the table to take his 
outstretched left hand. Nearer, he saw ; and he no 
longer took the hand in question — ^he caught at it. 

Gaston I What in God's name has happened to you ? 
Here — sit down, for pity’s sake ! ” 

He pulled out the nearest chair from the table, and, 
far from unwillingly, the wounded man sat down in it, 
saying as he did so, “ But, my dear Pierre, why all this 
emotion at the sight of a Uttle blood ? ” 

The Abbe suddenly made use of a very unecclesiastical 
expression. “ What has happened to you ? ” he repeated, 
standing over him. 

If you must know,” said his foster-brother, leaning 
back with a little smile in the chair, ” I have had the bad 
luck to be winged by a Blue who must have been lurking 
in the forest, and the wound, shght in itself, has bled a good 
deal, that is all. — Sit down, Pierre, and tell me your news. 
You have succeeded — I can see it ! ” 

How he could see it on the perturbed countenance 
gazing down at him was not easy to guess. 

“Yes, I have succeeded,” returned the priest shortly. 
” But there is plenty of time to talk about that later. I 
will see this wound first, if you please. What in the name 
of fortune were you doing in the forest at this time of night ? 
And who bandaged this up — ^who was the imbecile who 
took your coat off you and put it on again instead of 
slitting up the sleeve ? ” 

For the Marquis, submitting to the inevitable, had 
stiffly and painfully drawn his aim out of the breast of his 
coat and laid it on the table. 

” One question at a time, mon cher,” he said. ” M. de 
Brencourt was with me, and it was he who was kind enough 
to do what he could for me. I myself was the imbecile 
who insisted on getting into my coat again.” 

” And why, may I ask ? ” enquired the Abb6, rapidly 
unbandaging. ” Do you enjoy putting yourself to 
pain ? ” 

” Does anybody ? ” retorted his patient. I did not 


WHAT THE ABB£ THOUGHT OF IT 249 

want to cause more alarm on my return than I needed ; 
that was why/* 

Humph ; very thoughtful of you ! ** commented 
M. Chassin, glancing at him. Tch ! tch ! a nice business ! 
The ball is still there ! ’* 

I believe it is/’ admitted M. de Kersaint almost apolo- 
getically. 

“ Can you move your fingers ? ” 

** I can, but I don’t want to.” 

” I wonder where it has got to,” murmured the Abb^, 
still examining. ” Does that hurt ? ” 

” Yes, infernally,” responded the victim, wincing. 

” Very well, I will not do it again. VTierever it is the 
bullet will have to come out.” 

” Naturally,” said the Marquis resignedly. ” But at 
least tie my arm up for to-night — and tell me about the 
treasure.” 

” Tell me first about this, Gaston. Was the man near — 
this looks to me as if it had been fired from a few yards off 
only ? Did you see him ? ” 

” N . . . no ; he was in the shadow under the trees.” 

” Whereabouts ? ” 

His foster-brother hesitated. ” Not far from the 
Moulin-aux-F ees. ” 

” Holy Virgin, what were you doing there ? ” 

” Perhaps foolishly, taking a walk.” And then he went 
on quickly, ” But are you not going to tie this thing up, 
or am I to spend the night like this ? ” 

For his bared arm, streaked with blood and much swollen 
round the httle bluish orifice, rested before him on the 
table, and the Abb6 had retired into the bedroom. 

” I am going to wash it first,” came his voice from 
within. The Marquis put his head back against the chair. 
He suddenly looked exhausted. 

The sound of pouring water was heard. ” This solitary 
Republican had a musket, I imagine — or was it a pistol ? 
The wound looks to me rather hke a pistol-wound.” 

” No, it was a musket ... at least I suppose so,” replied 
the duellist almost inaudibly. The priest came to the 
door of the bedroom and looked at him for a second ; then 
he vanished again and reappeared with a glass in his 
hand. 


250 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** Drink this, if you please, Gaston ! he said authorita- 
tively. His brother opened his eyes. 

“ I detest brandy,’* he said, almost petulantly. ** And 
you surely do not think that I am going to faint ? ” 

That is as it may be,” returned the Abbe, watching the 
speaker narrowly as he took and drained the glass. And 
he washed and bandaged very speedily, asking not a single 
further question during the operation. Perhaps he had 
come to the conclusion that he were better advised not to 
do so, for other reasons than that his patient was not in the 
most fitting condition to answer them. After which, re- 
fusing in his own turn to satisfy any enquiries about the 
treasure that evening, he announced his intention of 
acting as the Marquis’s body-servant for the nonce ; and 
did so. 

” You’ll do best with this pillow under your arm,” he 
observed when the wounded man was in bed. ” We will 
have the surgeon from Lanvennec as early as we can get 
him to-morrow morning.” 

” Damnable nuisance, that ! ” muttered the sufferer 
impatiently. ” Are you sure that you could not manage 
to extract the ball yourself, Pierre ? ” 

” Having some small idea of the intricate structure even 
of the human arm,” responded M. Chassin, arranging the 
pillow under the arm in question, ” I am quite sure that 
I could not, without possibly maiming you for life. And 
why should you object to having a surgeon ? — Is that 
comfortable ? ” 

** Since you succeeded in extracting the gold from 
Mirabel,” observed Mirabel’s owner, looking up at him 
with a rather feverish brilliance in his eyes, ” I should have 
thought that a trifle like this would be nothing to you. 
My God, Pierre, have you really got it all — ^twenty-five 
thousand pistoles ? It is almost too good to believe ! 
Why, with half that amount ” 

The priest held up hi^ finger, smiling. ” Yes, I got it 
nearly all away. And now you must ” 

” A moment, Pierre ! no, I insist on asking this ! That 
woman at Mirabel — ^the concierge ; I hope she has not 
been compromised in any way ? I should be most deeply 
concerned if it were so.” 

” Ah, the concierge,” repeated M. Chassin, and he 


WHAT THE ABBJi THOUGHT OF IT 251 

paused. — ^No, as far as I know, she has not fallen 
under suspicion at all. But I had to leave extremely 
hurriedly, so that I should be very glad if I — ^if you, rather, 
could make enquiries on the point.*" 

** I shall do so,** said his foster-brother. ** Think of 
what I owe her — ^the boy*s safety, perhaps his hfe. . . . 
Why are you looking at me like that, Pierre ? ** 

The priest pulled himself together. You have asked 
enough questions for to-night, Gaston. Just answer me 
one in return. — Since we parted, has not M. de Brencourt 
. . . guessed your secret ? ** 

The Marquis flushed, and his mouth tightened. ** I 
think he guessed it long ago.'* 

But he knows it now, beyond guessing — ^you know 
that he knows ? ” 

A pause. Yes,’* said the Due de Trelan at last, frown- 
ing and reluctant. I know . . . that he knows.** 

He turned his head away on the pillow. 

** Thank you,” responded M. Chassin rather grimly. 
And then he added, in a tone astonishingly light-hearted, 
” I daresay it is as well.” 

The Due bit his lip. ” I am glad you think so,” he 
replied in an exceedingly cold voice. And from the reply 
and its manner the priest learnt what he wanted to learn. 
M. de Brencourt had made no pleasant use of his knowledge. 

” If you need anything in the night, or cannot sleep, 
Gaston, call for me. I shall spend it in your room out 
there. — ^Yes, it is necessary. Try not to make calculations 
about what Mirabel has given you, but get some rest if you 
can.” 

” And if I cannot, what pleasanter subject could I have 
to think about ? ” enquired his patient, looking up at him 
again. The frown was gone. ” And for that, as for so 
much else, I have to thank you, my brother.” He held out 
his left hand. 

” And suppose,” said the Abbe in a low voice, as he took 
it in both his own, ” suppose that I had come back with my 
news to find you with a bullet in your heart ! Gaston, you 
might have remembered . . . me ! ” 

The hand in his own returned his grip, but the voice said, 
with fair composure, "Yes, it was foolhardy, that walk. 
But surely, Pierre, you know that one day or the other 


252 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


you are certain to find me as you say ; and you know, too, 
that if I have finished my task it is what I should desire.** 

*‘ Yes,** said Pierre Chassin very gravely. ** I do not 
wish you any better death, when the time comes. But the 
death you faced to-night was not worthy of you. Perhaps 
the prayers of ... of one who lived at Mirabel averted 
it. And I know you must have been tried beyond 
endurance. . . . See, I have shaded the candle so ; and 
remember to call me. Good-night, mon frere.'* 


CHAPTER VI 


MEMINI ET PERMANSO 

It was soon plain to Gaston de Trelan that, between bodily 
pain and mental turmoil, sleep was not likely to visit him 
much that night. He would, at least, keep that fact 
from Pierre if he could. . . . Poor Pierre I it seemed to be 
his fate to cause him anxiety ! And he owed him so much, 
more than a man could ever repay : his hfe — that was 
little — ^but what measure of self-respect he had also. 

That hfe he had nearly cast away this evening, and, 
because of his present position and circumstances, he fully 
shared the priest's reprobation of the hazard, but no other 
course had been possible, for not Pierre himself, who had so 
quickly penetrated the tale of the “ Blue," could guess the 
lengths to which he had suffered de Brencourt to go 
before he consented to fight him. Even to Pierre he was 
not going to repeat the things the Comte had said. . . . 

Seven years ago, in London, only the Uttle priest's affec- 
tion and determination had prevented society from saying 
next day, "You remember that French emigre, the Due de 
Tr61an, whom we used to meet everywhere ? Well, he 
has just shot himself — and small wonder ! " And it was 
not as if Gaston and his prot^4 were then on terms of 
intimacy, for they had seen little of each other for the 
previous ten years or so, since his own visits to St. Chamans 
had become so much rarer — above all since the priest 
had come under his displeasure for something he had 
ventured to say to him down there not unconnected with 
Mme de Celigny. Few people, even of his own rank, under 
M. de Troian's displeasure cared to have deahngs with him 
in that condition, and yet this peasant-priest, who had 
never approached his patron in his own need (for the Due 
afterwards discovered that he had been living in London 
for weeks on the verge of starvation) had the disinterested 
courage to oppose him in the blackest hour of his life. And 

253 


254 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Pierre Chassin had done more than stay his finger on the 
trigger, for when, during that dreadful vigil, Gaston himself 
had said, out of his agony, that no other path remained 
open to him, since neither in England nor in France could 
he ever look an acquaintance in the face again, it was the 
Abbe who replied, “ Then change your name. Do not go 
to serve with Conde, as you were intending ; go where no 
one knows you.” And so, as the Marquis de Kersaint, 
the Due de Trelan — a soldier by education and the descend- 
ant of soldiers — entered Austrian service against the 
French Republic, thinking, mistakenly, that he could soon 
throw away his life on the battlefield ; as the Marquis de 
Kersaint he rose to command, found a certain anodyne in 
hard work and fighting, and was in touch by letter during 
those years with the only man he could really call friend — 
his only confidant at least — ^the humbly-bom foster-brother 
who had stood by him in his extremity, and had earned the 
right to address him more freely than a brother by blood 
would ever have dared to do. 

But of the two things he sought — forgetfulness or death 
— M. de Trelan had found neither. For him the arrogant 
motto of his race was only too true — ' Memini et permaneo, 
I remember and I remain.' It soon became clear to him 
that when a man desired extinction he could not have it. 
What of the hazards of that Italian campaign, of the 
fights for Mantua, of Castiglione, Caldiero, Areola, through 
which he had always come untouched till the day of 
Rivoli ? Even then death had tossed him aside in the 
end. 

Indeed, that disastrous fourteenth of January, 1797, 
when the young, haggard-eyed general from Corsica had 
beaten the Austrian marshal on that plateau among the 
mountains, had brought Gaston de Trelan not death but 
honour. At Vienna, when he had recovered from his all 
but fatal wound, the Emperor’s hand had bestowed on him 
the coveted Cross he wore. So, when the peace of Campo- 
formio had ended Austria’s wars for a time, and the Abb 4 
Chassin, now an accredited agent of the Royalists of the 
West, had deterred him from entering Russian service and 
persuaded him, despite his hatred of the place, to come 
to London, he came, in his borrowed name — and found 
himself, to his surprise, no little of a hero there also. 


MEMINI ET PERMANEO 


255 


For there had been attached to Alvintzy’s staff at Rivoli 
an English officer of discernment, who, greatly struck by 
the part played in the battle by “ Colonel de Kersaint 
and his practically forlorn hope of a column, while much 
criticising the higher command for devoting it to destruction, 
had not spared in his despatches eulogies of its leader nor 
regrets for his supposed fate. And after a little while 
spent in London, in very different circles from those in 
which he moved before, the “ Marquis de Kersaint was 
offered by the Comte d’Artois and his council the post of 
organising and leading Finistere. He accepted ; but 
nothing would induce him to go to Edinburgh for the 
personal interview which the Prince desired. They had 
met too often at Versailles for that. 

So he had now in his hands the chance to do something 
that she whom he had lost would have approved. In those 
years of self-imposed expiation he had learnt what he had 
thrown away, not so much in failing her at the moment 
of peril, which he had done in ignorance, but through his 
insane blindness in having so little prized, through ^ the 
best of life, a' love and a nobility which many a man would 
have given his soul to possess. In the great and terrible 
awakening through which he had passed in London he had 
seen himself as he must have appeared to other men, and 
that hell was too sharp at first for any consolation to 
visit him, and any least thought or memory of Valentine 
could only be more exquisite torture. Yet there came a 
day when, instead of averting his mind from what he could 
not bear to contemplate, he found himself gazing at it 
as the one hope in the blackness, as a trembling pagan 
might see the image of the martyr smile upon him, the 
martyr his own hands had done to death. Valentine had 
loved him ; what if she loved him stiU ? 

It grew in him to conviction, that first dim fancy ; it 
saved him, probably, from madness. Lost, sometimes, 
like a star which the clouds have blotted out, it always 
reappeared, and shone at last with almost the light of an 
inspiration, a proof of the strong and steady influence 
which the dead can wield. So it came about in the end 
that, for all the suffering and hopeless regret involved, 
Gaston, Due de Trelan, was fast in love with his wife’s 
memory — so fast that he who had once been '' Saint-Char- 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


256 

mant " in Paris salons had in Vienna the character of a 
woman-hater — so fast that he felt, if Valentine knew the 
depth of his repentance and his pain, she, with her wide 
charity, would forgive him everything ... as he doubted 
not that, in the supreme hour, she had. 

But to forgive oneself, that was a different matter. His 
own stark pride, so interwoven with the fabric of his whole 
nature, seemed to put that possibility ever further and 
further from him as the years went by. Yet, if he could 
not himself forget, it seemed at least that others had done 
so — ^till that night at Hennebont when the calumny which 
he had believed dead had reared its head for an instant. 
Afterwards it had slept again, apparently, through all 
the directions he had been obliged to give de Brencourt 
about Mirabel before despatching him thither, in which he 
knew quite well that he was risking having the veil tom 
from the wound. His sacrifice, made to get the gold 
for the cause to which he had vowed himself, had recoiled 
on his own head. For days now he had been at the mercy 
of the Comte, with his knowledge of that slander which was 
half tme ; and de Brencourt had behaved like a Red Indian 
with an enemy at the stake, subjecting him to a deliberate 
mental torture to which this night’s hazard and bloodshed 
had been nothing but a relief. It was small consolation 
to know that he, for his part, — till the coming of the 
breaking-point — had endured reiterated agony without 
giving a sign . . . agony not only to his pride but to his 
love. For it was true — ^by what diaboUcal instinct had 
de Brencourt known it ? — ^that his chief thought when he 
received the terrible news had been for his own honour 
. . . though it had long ceased to be true. But that final 
remark about the want of an heir, the very taunt he had 
thrown at her himself ! Even now, alone and in half 
darkness though he was, the Due de Troian threw his arm 
over his eyes and groaned aloud. Ah, that look of mortal 
pain on her face when he had spoken those cniel words — 
the last he was ever to say to her, the last look he was to 
carry away. Memini et permaneo ! And had she remem- 
ber^, when in the same room she had faced that scene of 
violence which was but the prelude to the other, the final, 
the unspeakable, outside the prison door ? 

It was more than clear to him now what had reawakened 


MEMINI ET PERMANEO 


257 


de Brencourt's enmity ; it was that visit to Mirabel where she 
had lived. That he himself in the past had known nothing 
of his wife’s acquaintance with the Comte was but natural, 
seeing how their hves, even before their final separation, 
had drifted asunder, and it was the fact that de Brencourt 
should have constituted himself her defender against him, 
her husband, which had proved so intolerable. His wife's 
memory championed against him by a casual admirer ! 
For the vulgar question as to what Valentine’s relations 
with the Comte de Brencourt might possibly have been 
had no power over him. It needed not the enshrinement of 
death to set her reputation above any suspicion of un- 
faithfulness. It had stood there in hfe, something of a 
marvel among so many which were otherwise. He had not 
that, at least, to rack him. 

Now, judging de Brencourt by the standard common 
to gentlemen, since they had been out together and blood 
had flowed, he expected a surcease of this bitter hos- 
tility. Absurd as it might be, the fact that he, the injured 
party, had a bullet in his arm signified, by the code, that 
his honour was satisfied. Since Gaston de Trelan had been 
reared in that code, it did not seem absurd to him— -though 
damnably inconvenient and painful. Yet, though de Bren- 
court had shared with him that sacrament of expiation, 
and had taken his hand after it, his superior was beginning 
to see that he, at least, had undertaken by the dolmen 
more than he could carry out. De Brencourt ’s conduct 
had been too dehberate. They would not be able to work 
together to any profit. He would be obliged, after all, to 
ask him to resign. For a few days, however, in order to 
disarm suspicions on the part of his staff, they would have 
to go on as before. Then he would appoint du Menars in 
the Comte’s place. It would be best ; for now he must 
concentrate all his energies on distributing the arms which 
the treasure would shortly procure from England, where, 
as already arranged, the Government would buy the gold as 
it stood, by weight. 

Yes, at last he had the means in his power to make his 
difficult task a success. He would, moreover, have had 
the satisfaction of having provided these himself. It meant 
a great deal to him — ^more than he had once thought any- 
thing in life could mean. And lying there, more than a 

R 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


258 

little feverish, he began to be busy with plans and schemes. 
Undoubtedly, when the time was fully ripe, as it nearly was, 
this great uprising of the West would be no petty insurrec- 
tion. It might change the destinies of France. And he 
would have no small part in that consummation — ^he who 
had wasted all his opportunities, as Valentine had told him 
at the last, and only too truly. Yet he could not lay any 
achievement, past or future, any expiation, before her now. 
She was gone where ^e could hear neither of Italy nor 
Finist^re. 

Gaston de Troian turned restlessly in the bed. His 
arm was on fire ; he was already between sleep and fever, 
and, as sometimes happened stiU, the desperate wound he 
had taken in his side two and a half years ago, though fully 
liealed, awoke to pain once more. And perhaps because 
of the ache of the one and the fever of the other, he sud- 
denly saw, as a detached spectator might see in a great 
j)icture, the heights and vineyards of Rivoli, the lofty 
plateau which the French had so victoriously retained, 
the snowy slopes of Monte Baldo above it, below, the zigzag 
path from the valley choked with a horrible debris of the 
slain men and horses and the cannon of Reuss’s pounded 
column — and under Monte Baldo, himself, among the 
dead and d5dng of his own corps, sacrificed in an impossible 
enterprise, lying as he had fallen in beating off the charge of 
Junot's cavalry, the whole side of his white Austrian uniform 
one great stain of blood. He saw the picture in this curious 
way for a moment, with the sun going down red behind the 
mountains of Garda — ^the next, physical memory caught 
him up, and he was back in that still conscious body of his, 
lying there hour after hour in the cold, defeated and for- 
gotten. The stars came out in the January night ; dowm 
below in the gorge roared the Adige, swollen with the 
winter rains ; he could hear from the smirched and trampled 
snow a few groans, a prayer or two ; he was not sure that 
he was not groaning himself. . . . And he remembered the 
three days of that toilsome march round Monte Baldo on 
which he had been despatched in order to take Joubert in 
the rear — ^a project ill-conceived and ill-timed, as he was 
well aware — ^his breaking in consequence with his five 
battalions on the doubly-reinforced foe when the battle was 
already lost, the hopeless conflict against the whole weight 


MEMINI ET PERMANEO 


259 


of the French army, with its inevitable close — surrender. 
But he had not surrendered. . . . The cold grew numbing ; 
was this sleep, or death . . . 

Finistere’s leader came out of this half coma of reminis- 
cence with a start, and realised where he was, how far 
removed in time and space from the great Austrian discLster. 
He supposed that he was a trifle light-headed, for he had 
reaUy felt that the next thing would be the arrival of those 
dim, frosty-breathed forms with lanterns, and Schnitterl’s 
voice, and he would be lifted to a stretcher and to a re- 
sumption of that life he thought he had done with at last. 
Josef had often told him how he had begged to be left there. 
But no ... Et permaneo. 

After all, he thought now, staring at the moving reflec- 
tion of the candle on the ceiling, perhaps it was as well that 
he had not died there in the snow. There was a chance 
to-day of something better than mere personal heroism. 
Although nothing, nothing could undo the past nor give 
him back the dead, yet, if ever they met beyond the grave, 
he might have some guerdon to lay there at her feet — some 
tiny sprig of laurel that he could point to and say, Valen- 
tine, I was not wholly what you thought me. ...” 

And for a moment he fancied that he saw her, shadowy 
and bejewelled, by the bed. 


CHAPTER VII 

THE CHURCH MILITANT 

It was Lucien who rode to Lanvennec next morning for 
the surgeon. M. de Brencourt considered him discreet, 
and chose him rather than Artamene (who had besides 
been up aU night) or any other of the younger men. But 
had he known that Lucien, though outwardly respectful 
and certainly of a fundamental prudence, was finishing 
in his head as he rode a short but very venomous epistle 
in verse, beginning, Artus, le Judas de nos jours ! ” in 
which, somewhere near the end, maitre ” rhymed with 
** traitre*’ he might have selected another messenger. 

However, the surgeon came, concerned but unsuspicious, 
and, assisted by M. Chassin, did his unpleasant work with 
reasonable speed and deftness, producing at the end of it 
what he vaguely termed a '* projectile ” from a region of 
M. de Kersaint’s forearm which, on the contrary, he de- 
scribed with much exactitude. And while he was binding 
up the arm in question the Abbe quietly annexed the 
bullet — “ as a souvenir,” he said. 

But someone else seemed to be souvenir-hunting that 
morning. Not long aiter the Abb^ had left his patient 
to repose and had estabhshed himself again in the outer 
room with his reflections and his breviary, the Comte de 
Brencourt appeared there. 

“ Is it out satisfactorily ? ” he enquired. 

” Quite,” replied the priest. ” A painful business ; 
but nothing, mercifully, appears to be permanently injured. 
Yet the surgeon tells me that our leader ” — he stressed the 
words a httle — ” came very near never having the use of 
his sword-arm again.” 

The Comte looked grave. To do him justice, he had 
desired last night to kill, not to maim. 

” The curious thing,” went on the priest, is that the 
bullet is a pistol bullet, though last night M. de Kersaint 
distinctly said that his assailant shot him with a musket.” 

260 


THE CHURCH MILITANT 


261 

No, no ! The man had a pistol,*' said M. de Brencourt. 
** The Marquis was mistaken." 

" Obviously the man had a pistol," agreed M. Chassin 
with serenity. " And not an army pistol either." 

The Comte met his look. ** I should rather like to see 
that bullet," he observed. 

“ No doubt," thought the Abbe, twiddling it in his 
pocket. " But you are not going to." And as he made no 
audible reply to this suggestion the enquirer had to let the 
subject drop. 

"To turn to another question, Abb4," he said, sitting 
down, " one has not yet had opportunity to congratulate 
you on your wonderful success. Allow me to do so now — 
most heartily." 

" You are generous. Monsieur le Comte," said the priest, 
reaching round to place his breviary on the table, and not 
seeming to notice the proffered hand. " I thank you all 
the more. Another person ought by rights, however, to be 
included in your congratulations.’* 

" Who — not Roland de Celigny, surely ? ** 

" No. His friend the concierge — ^your friend the 
concierge." 

" Why do you call her my friend ? ** asked the Comte 
with a frown. " She was certainly de Celigny ’s, but in no 
sense mine." 

" No ? Well, my friend the concierge, then," said the 
priest with a little smile. 

De Brencourt’s heart was beating to suffocation as he 
looked at him. Now, surely, he should learn whether to 
M. Chassin she were more than a concierge — the main 
purpose with which he had sought this interview. 

"Yes, she was of the greatest service to me," resumed the 
priest, " although, indeed, she gave me no active assistance. 
Poor woman, she had had a sad history." 

" Did she tell it to you ? ** demanded the Comte quickly. 

" Oh, one did not need to be told it," replied the Abb^. 

But the look of rehef which at that most palpably 
appeared on the Comte’s features had the briefest stay there 
conceivable, for the aumonier went on to say meditatively, 
" I am glad to think that I was able to make her some 
recompense. You remember the ruby necklace mentioned 
in the plan. Monsieur le Comte ? ** 


262 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


You are not going to say that you gave her that ! '' 
exclaimed his companion, starting up in his chair. 

“ Ah, I see you think it an excessive reward ? " com- 
mented the Abbe, looking at him enquiringly. “ So did 
M. le Marquis, I fancy, when I told him. But come now, 
Monsieur le Comte, do you not think that it really was no 
more tlian her due, that if ever woman had a right to it, 
she had . . . and that if M. de Kersaint knew all he would 
say the same ? " 

But the Comte was quite speechless. The piercing httle 
eyes held his, and he could feel them boring into his very 
soul. “ If ever woman had a right to it ” . . . “ if M. de 
Kersaint knew all.” The Abbe knew — ^he knew I He 
would never have given her the necklace else. Had he told 
the Due yet ? 

Of course,” went on the priest in a lowered tone, 
lowering that uncomfortable gaze also tni it rested on his 
blunt fingers outspread on his knees, ” had there been a 
Duchess of the house living I should not have felt justified 
in giving so valuable an heirloom to a concierge. But, 
under the sad circumstances, I hold that I was absolved, 
do not you. Monsieur le Comte ? ” 

Oh, curse his maddening and mysterious persistence ! 
Was he playing with him, or was he ignorant after 
all ? 

” That is not for me to say,” muttered the Comte thickly. 
” The matter concerns M. de Kersaint.” 

” Very true. Everything about Mme Vidal more nearly 
concerns M. de Kersaint than anybody else.” He seemed 
to wait for the Comte to agree or else to ask why, but the 
Comte could bring out neither assent nor query. 

” Since he is most interested in the treasure,” finished 
the Abbe with an amicable air of explaining his statement. 
” And, speaking of that treasure, Monsieur le Comte, I 
feel sure that by now you have penetrated the disguise. 
The cloak was bound to sit rather awkwardly after — you 
know what I mean.” He looked at him again. 

M. de Brencourt changed colour. ” Disguise ? Whose 
disguise ? No, I do not know what you mean ! ” There 
was sharp alarm in his tone ; whither was this tending ? 

” Whose disguise ? ” repeated the priest. ” Why, surely, 
there is only one disguise in question ? ” He waited a 


THE CHURCH MILITANT 263 

second and then went on, ** The Marquis has perhaps told 
you himself who he is ? 

No, he has not ! " returned M. de Brencourt angrily. 
** And I do not wish to learn any secrets, if you please, 
Abbe ! For if he could carry it off with the Abb^ and the 
outside world in general that he had never known who de 
Kersaint really was, how could he be blamed for not having 
told him that his wife was alive ? 

Very well said. Monsieur le Comte,'' remarked M. 
Chassin in a tone of commendation. ** And if I were not 
sure that, hke myself, you know already, I would not 
speak to you of the identity of M. de Kersaint and the 
Due de Trelan." 

“ But for Heaven's sake do not speak to me of their 
identity ! " cried the Comte, his head reeling as he saw 
this knowledge being openly thrust upon him. " How do 
I know — or care — who he is ! " 

** I am afraid I have done it now," said the priest placidly 

but only because I was sure you had guessed it." 

** How could you be sure ? " growl^ the other. " Did 
— surely he did not tell you ? Only last night he asked me 
to respect his confidence ! " 

" Ah ! " said the priest. " After you . . . saved his 
life, no doubt I Well, Monsieur de Brencourt, you can still 
respect it. And since you do know it — 1 thought you did — 
I am sure that as a gentleman you must regret the expres- 
sions you used, in ignorance, of M. de Trdan, that night at 
Hennebont. But you have no doubt made that all right 
with him." 

" That," said M. de Brencourt, with hostility, " is a 
matter which concerns M. de Tr41an and myself, not you, 
Monsieur Chassin. — And as regards confidences, it seems 
to me that you were going very near betraying one your- 
self just now. If I had not known ... are you usually 
in the habit of doing that ? " For now there was a fresh 
track of alarm ; had the priest betrayed this particular 
confidence to one at Mirabel — told the concierge, even 
without knowing who she was, that he really came from 
Mirabel's master ? It was not impossible. He waited in 
acute tension. . 

"No," said the Abbe composedly, " without wishing to 
belaud myself, it is a point I am rather particular upon. 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


264 

But I assured the Marquis — the Due — some time ago that 
he would have to tell you sooner or later. I wonder he 
did not do so before you went to Mirabel. Did you not 
guess it then, from the knowledge he displayed of the 
place ? ” 

“ Monsieur TAbbe/’ rephed the Comte, with more 
than irritation, “ it does not seem to me to matter much 
what I guessed or what I did not guess. Enough that 
I did not impart my speculations to any living soul." 

“ No, I am sure you were very careful not to do that ! " 
said the Abbe warmly, and he looked at him harder than 
ever. 

M. de Brencourt got up and went to the window. He 
must know, this man. And yet . . . did he ? He would 
have told de Trelan at once, if he did ; a bullet in the arm 
would not have prevented the reception of that news. 
The Comte would almost have given his soul to make sure, 
but it was so difficult to plumb the extent of the priest’s 
knowledge without exposing his own. A sort of fascina- 
tion caused him to recur to the subject of Mirabel, but he 
approached it this time from a safer side. 

“ When am I to have an account of your securing of the 
treasure, Abbe ? ’’ he asked, throwing himself down on the 
window-seat. It was under the hearth in the sallette, 
I suppose ? " 

And presumably his fellow-adventurer felt he owed him 
this, for he gave him, on this invitation, a fairly circum- 
stantial account of his success at Mirabel and his pere- 
grinations afterwards. The Comte hstened from the 
window with the closest attention. After all, she did not 
seem to have played so much part in the business as he 
had feared. Perhaps 

“ But I was glad to leave Mirabel in any case," finished 
the narrator with a sigh. " It has a tragic atmosphere — 
a haunted feeling. Were you not conscious of that. 
Monsieur le Comte ? ’’ And as the Comte, for fear of giving 
an opening, did not reply, the priest went on, " If it were 
M. de Trelan’s once more and he were free to go there, I 
am sure he never would." 

M. de Brencourt could not resist the bait. " No, I 
should think not ! " he broke out in spite of himself. " He 
would think always of that night — of his wife, alone " 


THE CHURCH MILITANT 


265 

The priest looked up. ** Ah yes, I have heard you in 
that vein before, Monsieur le Comte,’' he interrupted coolly. 

* Now teU me candidly, for I want to know, since I am not 
gently born, and can’t understand the refinements of 
you nobles — ^is it not a fact that all the aristocrats who 
emigrated early, as M. de Trelan did, emigrated on a point 
of honour . . . mistaken, it may be, but still a principle ? 
Why, if it comes to that, Monsieur de Brencourt, you are, 
I think, an emigre yourself, and I don’t suppose you con- 
sidered that you were running away ? ” 

'‘No, that is true,” conceded the Comte somewhat re- 
luctantly. ” It was — ^before it became a matter of safety — 
a matter of principle.” 

" When the Due emigrated in 1790 it would have taken 
a very far-sighted person to prophesy the extremities to 
which the Revolution would go later on. I happen to 
know, too, that he made a great efiort to induce the 
Duchesse to accompany him. She refused, as it were 
on a point of honour also. She disapproved of the 
emigration.” 

” And dearly enough she paid for that disapproval,” 
muttered the Comte. 

” Quite true. And don’t you think that M. de Tr£an 
has paid dearly for it too ? ” 

A pause. ” He deserved to,” said his companion. 

The Abbe made a gesture. " One must make allowances 
for you. Monsieur. I know that you had the honour of 
the acquaintance of that noble and unfortunate lady — 
you told us so — and it has biased you against a man who 
has been equally unfortunate, and who, for seven years, 
in the midst of hardships and dangers of his own seeking, 
has never ceased to suffer the pangs of a remorse which, 
as I hope for salvation, I consider excessive.” 

“You are an eloquent defender, Abb^,” said the Comte 
de Brencourt, shrugging his shoulders. “ You should be 
at the bar ... I happen to differ from you. I consider, 
to put it bluntly, that M. le Due de Trelan deserves every 
sting of remorse he has suffered and may still suffer hence- 
forward. I am not for letting a man off so cheaply.” 

M. Chassin leant forward. “ That was a figure of speech, 
I presume ? ” he put in hke hghtning. 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked the Comte, startled. 


366 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** You spoke of letting him off — as if you had the power 
to do it/* 

The Comte recovered himself. Do not be absurd, 
Abb6 ! ’* he said scornfully. “ Am I the Judge of all the 
earth ? Of course it was a figure of speech 1 How could I 
absolve him for what is done and can never be undone ? 
Put his behaviour down, at the best, to mistaken judgment, 
we have to suffer for our mistakes just as much as for our 
crimes/* 

The Abb6 sat back in his chair again. Since you know 
that so well, Monsieur de Brencourt,** he said gravely, *' it 
might occur to you that it is a mistake — a dangerous 
mistake — to play with other people’s remorse. You 
might conceivably know that torment yourself one day ! ** 
I’ll take the risk of that,” said the Comte drily, and 
got up. ” Especially as I have no idea what you mean 
about * playing ' with other people’s,” he added, not at all 
certain what that phrase did mean in the mouth that had 
uttered it. It was time, at any rate, to end this dangerous 
interview, which had not told him what he wanted to know. 
One thing was clear, that if the priest knew Mme Vidal’s 
secret he would eventually teU the ” Marquis de Kersaint,” 
and after that, no doubt, would come the deluge, and 
either he, Artus de Brencourt, or his late adversary would 
really be swept away in it, this time. But if there came 
no deluge, then M. Chassin did not know. 

” If you will excuse me, mon pere,” he said, looking down 
at him, ” I must quit this interesting conversation for my 
duties. Ask M. de . . . Kersaint when you go in to him 
again, to send for me if he wants me.” And he left the 
room. 

So the Abb^ Chassin knew that he did not mean ever 
to tell Gaston de Tr(^ian that his wife was alive, that he 
meant to go on withholding the knowledge for his own 
purpose. And his heart was hardened against M. de 
Brencourt. 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE PAWN RETURNS TO THE BOARD 

(l) 

Roland had come. He stood in the * nursery * with an 
overjoyed friend holding him firmly by either arm. 

But why/’ he was now demanding feverishly, “ why 
cannot I see M. le Marquis at once, and get it over ? ” 

For if his sincere penitence had caused his grandfather 
to dismiss him in the end with a sort of blessing — a remark 
that he was, if crazy and disobedient, at least no milksop — 
the youth knew that there was a still more merited penance 
to gone through before he could expect a blessing here. 
Part indeed of that penance, and perhaps the worst part, he 
had already been undergoing at Kerlidec — the ashamed 
realisation of the damage his own wilfulness had caused to 
his hero's reputation, in the eyes, too, of one who was 
always so inexplicably hostile to M. de Kersaint. 

“ Why ? " echoed Artamene. Because, four nights 
ago, our revered leader met with an accident in the forest. 
(Roland gave an exclamation.) The accident took the 
form of a Blue, who shot him in the arm.” 

” But he’s all right,” interpolated the kindhearted Lucien. 
“ They took out the bullet next morning. The Abbe is 
very strict, however.” 

” — And M. de Brencourt shot the Blue,” continued 
Artamene, ” shot him so dead that he was, apparently, 
blown completely off this planet.” 

” You forget,” Lucien reminded him, ** that the Comte 
distinctly stated that he got away.” 

” What, after he was dead ? ” asked Roland. 

They looked at him ; they drew closer, very close. 

” Bend your head, my paladin,” commanded Artamene. 
And, almost glueing his lips to the attentive ear, he 
whispered into it, ” The question is, whether he ever lived, 
that Blue 1 ” 


267 


268 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


dh ! *' exclaimed the Vicomte de Celigny, drawing 
back. 

“ Oh, and likewise Ah, and many other vocables ! " 
agreed M. de la Vergne, his eyes bright. 

“ But that means ..." 

Lucien put a finger on his lip. " We don’t discuss it, 
Roland. We don’t — ahem — allow our minds to dwell on 
it. But ’’ 

" * Au clair de la lune,’ ’’ hummed the Chevaher de la 
Vergne under his breath. " Two gentlemen, seized with 
a sudden desire for a walk at half past ten at night. I 
was on duty that evening, and let them out. Also, I met 
them returning — in perfect amity, I must confess ; most 
correct. You see, M. le Comte had been so obhging as to 
bandage the wound which he ’’ 

“ Don’t go on, Artamene ! ’’ cried Lucien wamingly. 
" Remember that we are here in the region of hypothesis 
only.’’ 

“ Listen to our student. * The wound which he so 
signally avenged,’ was what I was going to say, mon 
cher. Now, is that statement in the region of hypothesis 
or of fact ? If we knew that, we should know all ! ’’ 

“ But, merciful Heavens, why should they ’’ began 

Roland, in tones of horrified amazement. 

" My good Roland,’’ replied Artamene, " though most 
things are in time revealed to enquiring intelligences, 
such as M. du Boisfoss^’s and mine, the reason for that 
promenade under the goddess of the night has not yet 
been disclosed. The infernally bad temper in which M. de 

Bren Chut ! here’s the Abb6, come to summon you 

to the scaffold.’’ 

But that was not exactly M. Chassin’s errand. He had 
come to say that M. de Kersaint desired Roland to sup 
with them and to relate his adventures. And if the prodigi 
should have a little private interview with him afterwards 
he, the priest, did not fancy that it would be very 
terrible. 

" I expect you have been informed of his mishap," con- 
cluded M. Chassin, glancing at the other young men, neither 
of whom, by a singular coincidence, met his eye. " Thank 
God it was not worse. — Now mind you tell him, my child, 
all about Mirabel — especially about the concierge there." 


THE PAWN RETURNS TO THE BOARD 269 

(2) 

So Roland supped with the gods, as Artamene and Lucien 
had put it. The invitation, with its suggestion of pardon 
for the past, had pleased and flattered him ; the banquet 
itself he found at first a little embarrassing. To begin 
with, he had uneasy anticipations of the interview after- 
wards ; and then he found the sight of the Marquis with his 
arm in a shng oddly shocking, after the revelations made 
to him downstairs. That support was as inconspicuous 
as possible, being of black silk ; still, there was the leader 
of Finistere, at the head of the table, unable to use his 
right hand ; and at the other end sat the man who was 
. . . perhaps . . . responsible for his condition. The 
priest was placed opposite Roland, and Josef Schnitterl, 
M. de Kersaint’s bodyservant, waited upon them all ; 
but he was little in the room. 

Now if Roland, who possessed only conjectures, felt 
embarrassed, the little aumdnier, dowered though he was 
with an appearance of placidity and a good appetite, had 
arrived at the point where he could scarcely bear to see 
M. de Brencourt in the same room with his foster-brother 
— ^much less because of what had passed at the Moulin-aux- 
Fees than because of the deadly wrong the Comte was doing 
him now. And as a matter of fact the Marquis and his 
chief of staff did not seem to be seeking each other’s society 
these last few days, though when they were together their 
relations were of such a successful correctness that specula- 
tion downstairs — except with MM. du Boisfosse and de la 
Vergne — ^was beginning to languish. No one could have 
guessed that the priest was thinking, as he looked at the 
handsome and engaging young face opposite him, “ If only 
Roland knew of her identity! ” and that he was preoccupied 
every hour of the day with the question, Will she come ? ” 
or was on tenterhooks at every communication the Marquis 
received — for it might be from her. 

When Roland’s first constraint was over, and the meal 
had proceeded a little way, the Marquis enjoined the 
young man to give a most particular account of all his 
doings. Roland assumed the air of obeying to the f^, 
though as a matter of fact he contrived to make his narrative 
begin with his arrival in Paris. But this the Marquis 
would not have. 


270 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** You can only earn my full pardon, Roland,’* he said, 
looking at him quizzically, “by an equally fuU confession 
of your sins — and by revealing the names of all your 
accomplices ! “ 

The Comte and the Abb^ both exclaimed at this. “ No 
gentleman could consent to receive his pardon on such 
terms,” declared the former. 

“ It is true,” admitted the inquisitor, “ that I know 
Roland’s partners in guilt already. The one I have already 
dealt with ; the other, I am afraid, hes outside my juris- 
diction.” 

“ Ah, there was another, was there ? ” asked the Abbe, 
looking amusedly across at poor Roland, who, blushing, 
was ^ternately studying the tablecloth and sending 
appealing glances at his leader. “ I know of one. Who 
was the other ? Not our staid Lucien, surely ? ” 

" No,” replied M. de Kersaint, smiling, “ not Lucien. 
I have strong reasons to suspect another member of Arta- 
mene’s family, no less daring than himself, and, presumably, 
even more inspiring. — But enough that I know the name 
of this . . . person. — Go on, Roland ; after all we will 
dispense with the meetings of the conspirators at La 
Vergne. Continue from your leaving that nest of plotters.” 

He was in better spirits than he had been for days ; 
and how should Roland guess with what pleasure he was 
looking forward to an interview after supper where, after 
all, he should let the penitent off rather easily ? Thank- 
fully escaping from the dangerous neighbourhood of Mile 
de la Vergne the young man carried on his narrative up to 
his falling unconscious at the foot of the statue of Mercury 
in the park of Mirabel. 

M. de Kersaint leant back in his chair. “ We now 
come, I think, to the really romantic part of the story, do 
we not ? Enter Mme Vidal, I beUeve.” 

As Roland embarked on the entry of Mme Vidal into 
his recital the Abb^ and M. de Brencourt became very 
silent. (But Roland noticed nothing ; his audience was 
M. de Kersaint.) 

Almost immediately, however, the latter interrupted 
him. “ Wliat was she hke to look at, this good angel ? ” 
he enquired, laying down his fork. “ She was not youi^, 
that I have gathered.” 


THE PAWN RETURNS TO THE BOARD 271 

Roland was rather at a loss. ** I am afraid I am not very 
good at description, sir. But M. le Comte or M. I’Abb^ 
—he turned towards them — “ surely you have heard all 
about her appearance from them.” 

” No, indeed I have not,” replied the Marquis. 
” Rather remarkably, they neither of them seem able to 
describe her.” 

” Let us have your attempt, then, Roland,” said the 
Abbe. A vista of blest possibilities was opening out 
before him. The same thing was happening to the Comte 
de Brencourt . . . only the possibilities were not blest. 

Roland tried, but possibly through the hostile influence 
of the gentleman at the bottom of the table he failed to 
achieve anything recognisable. 

” ‘ Tall, fair hair going grey, blue-grey eyes ' — ^that does 
not advance us much,” observed M. de Kersaint with truth. 
“It is like the passport descriptions, * bouche moyenne,’ 
and the rest. Never mind Mme Vidal’s appearance, 
then, Roland. But since you of the three had the most 
intimate acquaintance with her, tell us, at least, what 
impression her personality made on you. For though 
M. le Comte does not seem to find the presence at Mirabel 
of a concierge with Royalist sympathies extraordinary, 
I must say that I do.” 

“ I said. Marquis, if I remember,” interposed M. de 
Brencourt rather hoarsely, “ that I thought her sym- 
pathies need not have been so entirely Royalist as you 
assume. She was a woman, M. de Celigny an interesting 
young man, helpless and wounded. . . que sais-je ? It 
was enough to appeal to any woman's heart.” 

Roland, embarrassed at hearing himself described in 
these terms, and in such an unpleasant voice, broke in, 

“ Oh but, indeed. Monsieur le Comte, she had Royalist 
sympathies. At least she was the widow of a poor Royalist 
gentleman ... for of course, Messieurs, you saw at once 
that she was a lady. Indeed, I could not quite under- 
stand why she accepted the post, for she certainly seemed 
out of place in it. Didn't you think so. Messieurs ? ” 

“ I did, certainly,” said the Abbe quietly. The vista 
was opening out into a regular Heaven. The Comte was 
understood to say that he had hardly seen her. 

“ It certainly does seem extraordinary,” mused the 


272 THE YELLOW POPPY 

Marquis, leaning his head on his hand, his eyes fixed on 
Roland. 

“ If you had seen her, sir, you would have thought so 
still more," said Roland with eagerness. " She had a 
carriage, always, and a way of speaking when she forgot 
herself— what I mean to say is, that if it hadn’t been so 
patently absurd to think so, one might even have taken her 
for a grande dame." 

“ And why," asked the Abbe softly, " would it be so 
patently absurd to have taken her for one ? Stranger 
things have happened in the topsy-turveydom of to-day. 
I have heard of Chevaliers of St. Louis working as steve- 
dores at a German port, and we all know how many emigres 
in London earned " 

M. de Brencourt broke in upon him rudely. " Pshaw, 
Abbe, you are too romantic, and so is M. de C^ligny. You 
forget, I have seen the woman too, and though undoubtedly 
superior, she was nothing out of the way, and as unlike 

the paragon of our young friend’s poetic fancy as " 

As falsehood is unlike truth," finished M. Chassin, look- 
ing straight at him. " Well, we differ, Comte, in our estimate 
of what is * out of the way,’ that is all. I am with M. de 
Celigny’s. — Go on, my son. You think one might even 
have taken her for a grande dame ? " 

" Stuff and nonsense," muttered M. de Brencourt 
angrily, pushing away his plate. 

" Really," said the Marquis, as this little passage of arms 
ended, " your Mme Vidal begins to intrigue me so much 
that I almost wish I had gone to Mirabel myself ! " 

" Ah, if only you had ! " was drawn in a whisper from 
the Abb4. 

M. de Kersaint heard, though he was not meant to, 
and raised his eyebrows. " Why, it was your representa- 
tions which prevented me from going ! " he exclaimed. 
** What is the matter. Monsieur de Brencourt ? " 

" Nothing," replied the Comte, who had half risen from 
his seat. " For the moment I thought — it was nothing." 

" You hear that testimony. Monsieur le Comte ? " said 
the Abbe, turning to him with a sudden air of combat. 
" You should be pleased with me — M. le Marquis acknow- 
ledges that it was my wise counsels which prevailed on him 
not to go in person to Mirabel ! " 


THE PAWN RETURNS TO THE BOARD 273 

** And why the deuce do you suppose I shuuld be pleased 
at that ? ** demanded the goaded gentleman. “ M. de 
Kersaint was welcome to go to Mirabel if he wished, for all 
it mattered to me ! ” 

(“ How very rude he is ! ** thought Roland, displeased.) 

You would not, surely, have had our leader run into 
such danger ? ** 

‘‘ Well, I had to run into it ! ” retorted the Comte. 

Yes — and succumbed ! '' returned the priest with such a 
world of meaning in his voice that the Comte changed 
colour. 

Come, Abbe,” interposed the Marquis, ” are you not 
being ungenerous to a less fortunate rival ? You are surely 
not casting it up at M. de Brencourt that he endured a brief 
captivity for the King’s cause ? ” 

The Abbe shook his head. “ M. le Comte knows that 
I am not,” he replied. ” But I am afraid that we are 
checking Roland’s interesting recital by our divergences 
on the subject of Mme Vidal. If he will forgive our bad 
manners ...” 

” Yes, go on, Roland,” said the Marquis. ” But you 
must eat too. You were telling us about your actual 
entry into the chateau.” 

” I got as far as Mme Vidal’s room,” resumed Roland 
obediently, ” and then I suppose I fainted again, for the 
next thing I remember is finding myself in bed there, and 
Mme Vidal bending over me again. — Ah, by the way,” he 
cried, suddenly remembering something which might 
serve as a contribution to portraiture, ” there was one 
curious little fact about her which I forgot to mention. 
It was then that I first noticed it. One of her eyes, though 
they were almost blue, had some brown specks in it. Did 
you remark it. Monsieur I’Abbe ? It was the right eye. 
You could only see it when she was quite near you.” 

” No . . . I . . . did not observe it,” said the Abb 4 . 
He spoke as if a strong wind of sudden origin had somehow 
taken away his breath. From the lower end of the table 
came the sound of a man drawing his sharply. 

” I remember I used to look at it when she nursed me,” 
went on Roland, happy at producing some effect in the 
end. And I ” 

He was interrupted by a voice he scarcely knew. ** She 
s 


274 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


had eyes, you say, almost blue, with brown specks in 
one ? '' gasped the Marquis, jerking forward in his chair. 

Did I hear rightly ? Blue eyes . . . which one had 
the . . . say it again I 

In a dead silence, and much embarrassed thereby, 
Roland repeated his observation. The Marquis de Ker- 
saint, leaning forward in his chair, his left hand clutching 
the table, looked at him with eyes which seemed as if they 
would drive through him, and as the young man, fascinated 
by that extraordinary gaze, returned it, he saw his leader 
slowly turn so pale that it looked as if every vestige of 
blood had been drained away from his face. Even his Hps 
were the colour of paper. Next moment, without a word, 
without even a gesture of apology, he had pushed back his 
chair, risen from his place, and disappeared into his bed- 
room. 

Roland fell back, smitten dumb vith astonishment, 
and, staring at the door which had just closed, he did 
not see the black and thunderous look which the Comte 
de Brencourt darted first at him and then at the Abbe. 
But in a moment the priest, too, was on his feet. 

“ It must be that wound of his," he said quickly. " If 
you will excuse me a minute. Messieurs ? " And he, too, 
went through the bedroom door. Roland saw his face 
as he went ; it was not inexpressive now. It wore a most 
singular look of mingled gravity and exultation. 

The Comte de Brencourt and the unconscious author of 
this scene were now alone. And just because the Comte 
was looking as he did Roland felt that he must say some- 
thing. 

" I am afraid that M. le Marquis' wound " he began 

timidly. 

M. de Brencourt gave a short laugh that was more like a 
snarl. " His wound ! " he exclaimed. " Well, yes, a 
wound if you like — a sore, a festering sore ! Mort de ma 
vie, boy, what made you so observant ! " 

" Observant I " repeated the puzzled Roland. " I don't 
understand you. Monsieur le Comte. Ought one not to 
have noticed that M. le Marquis was — in pain. But the 
Abbe " 

" Go on with your supper, in Heaven's name ! " broke in 
the Comte roughly. He really looked like murder at that 


THE PAWN RETURNS TO THE BOARD 275 

moment. ** You have done a pretty evening’s work, on 
my soul — and I don’t suppose you are through with it 
yet, either ! ” And, laughing again, he poured out and 
drank off a glass of wine. 

But Roland, almost convinced that he was sitting at 
table with a madman, was in no mood to obey him. He 
merely stared at the second in command. Fortunately 
it was only for a moment, for the bedroom door opened 
again and the Abbe stood there. 

“ M. de Kersaint wishes to speak to you, Roland,” he 
said. Amazing thing — he looked pleased. Roland got 
up, utterly bewildered. His interview — now ? He knew 
not what he had said or done to precipitate it, and apprehen- 
sion was so written on his face that M. Chassin put his 
hand kindly for a moment on his arm as he passed him, 
and gave it a httle pressure. 

The Comte de Brencourt now addressed the aumonier. 
“ Since your ser\’ices. Monsieur I’Abbe, don’t seem after all 
to be needed for this surprising seizure of M. de Kersaint ’s,” 
he observed, ” perhaps you will be good enough to sit down 
and finish your supper. These constant exits hardly tend 
to good appetite ! ” 

A flame of anger suddenly ran over the little priest’s 
face. “It is ymtr services that have been required these 
many days. Monsieur de Brencourt,” he rapped out, 
“ and you know it ! I have no wish to sit down to table 
with you ! ” And turning on his heel he marched out of 
the sitting-room and slammed the door. 

Stupefaction seized M. de Brencourt in his turn. He 
did know then, that wily old devil — ^he had known all the 
time ! Why, in the name of all his saints had he not told 
de Trdlan ? But anyhow de Trdan was in process of 
enlightenment at this moment behind that door, for of 
course he had had the boy in to question him further. In 
a few minutes he would doubtless come out, and then — 
well, there would probably be murder. For a little blood- 
shed would hardly wash away this time what their en- 
counter tlie other evening had not availed to bring to 
light. . . . 

For five minutes, perhaps, the Comte de Brencourt sat 
there with a set face waiting for this to happen ; then, as 
no one emerged from the inner room, his fretted nerves 


276 THE YELLOW POPPY 

drew him to his feet and sent him out in search of the 
Abbe. 

He found him standing motionless under the moon and 
stars just outside the farmyard — ^not far, to be exact, 
from the pigsties, as would have been obvious to anyone 
less absorbed. The Comte strode over to the cassocked 
figure. 

“ May I ask what you meant by that remark you made 
just now ? *' he demanded without preliminary. 

The Abbe drew himself up. " It is no good talking to me 
in that tone. Monsieur de Brencourt,** he returned with 
spirit. *' I am neither a gentleman nor a layman, so / 
can’t go out with you to the Moulin-aux-Fees.” 

Certainly no one would ever take you for a gentleman,” 
responded the Comte, his voice shaking with passion, ” and 
it takes a priest indeed to play the part you have played — 
a spying hedge-priest ” 

” '\^Tiich is worse. Monsieur le Comte, spying or 
lying?” 

** Lying!** ejaculated the Comte with vehemence. 
” Don’t your books of moral theology tell you that keeping 
quiet about a thing is as bad as lying about it ? Why was 
it more my business to tell the Due de Trelan that his wife 
is alive than yours, as you evidently knew it ? ” 

” Dear me,” said M. Chassin, and he smiled. ** I was 
referring to something quite different — ^to the occasion on 
which, in so many words, you told !Mme Vidal that her 
husband was dead — no tacit lie that ! I think you are 
rather betraying yourself, are you not, by referring to yet 
another ? ” 

” Oh, go to the devil ! ” burst out M. de Brencourt. 

” I wish I knew where you were to go, Monsieur le 
Comte,” was the priest’s answer. ” No, seriously, I do 
not wish to quarrel with you — even after the part you 
have played. The situation that you have brought about 
is much too grave for that. You must know that you 
have done a thing which God may forgive but which man 
will find it hard to. Listen to me. Monsieur de Brencourt, 
I beg of you, before it is too late, and remove yourself from 
the Clos-aux-Grives, from M. de Kersaint’s command 
even ” 

M. de Brencourt, thus adjured, exploded in an oath and 


THE PAWN RETURNS TO THE BOARD 277 

struck the door of the pigsty so violent a blow that he 
brought out an enquiring inmate. 

By the God above us, Abbe, you go too far I Do you 
suppose that I am going to run away from de Kersaint’s 
— ^from de Trelan’s — from any man*s anger ! — Forgiveness 
— I have not asked for it ! And when the Due de Trelan 
wants me he will know where to find me \” He swung off 
in the direction of the forest. 

I only wish I could hope he did not know where to 
find you,'* muttered the Abbe, gazing after his receding 
figure, ** for, short of a miracle, there will be a terrible 
day of reckoning for this silence of yours ! ” 

But the flood of joy and gratitude in his heart was too 
potent ; it swept away alike his disgust and his apprehen- 
sion, and by the pigsty wall itself M. Chassin fell on his 
knees and covered his face, while the moon, but little 
declined from her fatal plenitude of four nights ago, looked 
down benignantly upon him. 


CHAPTER IX 

THE CHOICE 

(l) 

The brief but acrimonious interview of M. de Brencourt 
and M. Chassin had scarcely terminated when Roland de 
Celigny emerged from his leader’s bedroom to the outer 
room. He shut the door behind him quickly, and stood 
there a moment wdth his back to it, curiously combining 
the air of a sentinel and that of a fugitive. And indeed, 
breathing rather fast, he was saying to himself, No one 
shall go in — not even the Abbe ! " 

He had just been witnessing something which, though 
he did not fully understand it, he felt no eyes ought to 
have witnessed ; he was hot and shaken with the thought 
that his ovm unwilling but necessary presence had been an 
outrage. . . . But since he was there, as he knew, to answer 
what he was asked, and since the Marquis de Kersaint could 
ask anything of him, even to his hfe, he had stayed, and 
averted his eyes through the storm of questioning, behind 
which could be divined a man’s very soul on the rack — 
till that final bowing of the proud, unhappy head over the 
battered trinket that Roland had withdrawn from his 
own neck and held out as proof irrefragable . . , yet a 
proof of what he still did not know. 

He was so agitated that it was only after a few seconds 
of this self-imposed vigil that he realised he was facing an 
empty room. The Abbe was not there, the Comte was not 
there. And in a minute or two more, still hearing no 
movement from within he thought, “ I must not stay 
here ; he would not like it ... I must tell the Abbe 
something. But I must also contrive that no one else 
goes in." And, casting a glance on the wasted victuals of 
that supper-table which he had been so instrumental in 
breaking up, he went out. 


278 


THE CHOICE 


279 


A little later he was knocking at the aumonier's door. 
M. Chassin, barely entered himself, opened it. His face lit 
up when he saw who stood there. 

My dear boy, I am glad to see you ! Come in ! 

Roland still hesitated. Are you alone, mon pere ? ** 

** Absolutely, my child. Come in ! *’ He almost steered 
him in. “ Now sit down, and we will have a talk. I was 
hoping that you would come.*' 

But Roland would not sit down. In his young mind 
he was afraid, if he did that, of being led into saying 
more than he wanted to say. He did not know how much 
he ought to reveal. As a matter of fact he hated saying 
anything at all about what he had seen, but, bewildered 
as he was, he felt that the Abbe had better be told some- 
thing. 

Standing there by the bed, he began at the end. I 
... I ventured to tell the officer of the guard that no 
one was to approach M. le Marquis to-night except through 
you — ^because of his wound,"' he said. 

“ Excellent 1 Very good indeed ! " said the priest, and 
he clapped him on the shoulder. Roland wondered a little 
why he seemed so elated ; to him, fresh from that scene 
with his leader, it did not seem quite decent. 

You are perhaps going to see him now, mon pere ? " 
he hazarded. 

** God forbid, my son ! If ever a man's privacy should 
be respected, his should be at this moment ... if you 
have done what I prayed you might be doing ! " 

But, Monsieur I’Abbe," besought the perplexed and 
almost unhappy Roland, “ what is it that I have done ? 
What is it all ? " 

“ TeU me first what you did do ? " said the priest. “ No," 
— ^for the boy had instantly turned away and was showing a 
disposition to go — " I do not want to hear anything about 
M. de Kersaint. I can see from your face how you feel 
about it. I only want to know this — ^how did you convince 
him ... if you did . . . that Mme Vidal, who has some 
brown specks in one of her eyes, was . . . someone he had 
known before ? " 

" I showed him," said Roland, looking at the floor, " a 
little old locket she gave me w'hen I left. And when he 
saw that " He stopped dead. 


28 o 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Yes, yes," said the priest, putting a hand on his arm. 
** When he saw that he was convinced, was he not ? That's 
all it is necessary for me to know, my child. Please God 
the rest will come right now." 

" O, Monsieur TAbbe, couldn't you tell me what is to 
come right ? " 

" Not just yet," said M. Chassin, smiling. But you 
shall know soon. Anyhow, my son, you can go to bed, 
as I hope you are about to do, with the reflection that 
you have this evening done the best day’s work you ever 
did in your young life. ... I think you have not yet 
had your scolding for going to Mirabel ? No ! Well, you 
will never get it now — -from M. de Kersaint." And adding, 
" Go to bed ! God bless you ! ” he, to Roland’s astonish- 
ment, bestowed upon him a hearty embrace. 

And the author of so much disturbance, somewhat com- 
forted, lay down a little later by the side of Artamene and 
Lucien, whose scrupulous abstention, on his request, from 
all enquiries about his supper-party seemed a thing phe- 
nomenal, an almost chilly lack. So, also, did the absence 
of the little locket and its chain from Roland’s own neck. 

( 2 ) 

How well inspired M. I'Abbe Chassin, for his part, had been 
to lie down to sleep that night almost fully dressed, was 
proved at about a quarter to five next morning, when he 
woke to find M. du Menars, rather scantily clothed, standing 
beside his bed. He blinked up at him a moment, for if he 
had expected to be roused by anyone, it was by Gaston 
himself. 

" Do you know where de Brencourt is, Abb^ ? ’’ asked 
the Comte’s next in rank. " He is nowhere to be found, 
and I must see either him or the Marquis at once, the 
Marquis by preference. But for that I want your permis- 
sion, as I understand he was not to be disturbed without 
it." 

" What has happened ? ’’ asked the Abb6, getting of£ the 
bed. 

" Cadoudal has just sent an express to say that the 
English convoy with muskets and ammunition for the 
Morbihan which he was expecting has arrived — arrived two 
days ago," he added, glancing at the open letter in his 


THE CHOICE 


281 


hand, but that, knowing M. de Kersaint to be in need of 
both, and that he would probably be in a position to repay 
him in kind later on, he detached one ship for us before it 
unloaded, and directed it to put in at Sainte-Brigitte, and 
as the wind is favourable it ought to be there this evening. 
Splendid news — provided we can reach the coast quickly. 
And of course we shall want every man we can get together 
to cover the disembarkation, for the Blues are certain to get 
wind of it."' 

I will rouse the Marquis instantly," said M. Chassin. 
" Only do me the favour, Monsieur du Menars, of 
allowing me to see him first. He was much indisposed 
last night. . . 

And a few seconds later, with Cadoudal’s despatch in 
his hand, he was knocking gently on his foster-brother’s 
door. Receiving no answer he tried the handle. To his 
surprise it gave, so he went in, shutting the door quickly. 

It was light, of course ; had been Hght for long enough, 
added to which the sun would soon be up. All the eastern 
sky already expected him. But in the room there still 
survived the pale, forgotten ghost of a candle flame, and the 
open window was curtained over. And by the window, 
fully dressed, his sound arm stretched out along the wide 
ledge, his head sunk forward on that arm, sat Gaston de 
Trelan asleep. At least he did not move until the priest 
touched him on the shoulder. 

" Who is it ? " he asked without moving. " I thought the 
door was locked." 

" It is I, Pierre,"* answered the Abbe, his voice very 
stirred. " Gaston, my brother . . . 

And his brother sighed, hfted his head, and puUed him- 
self up from the sill, stiffly, as if he had been there a long 
time. In his one available hand he held something tightly. 
He looked like a man who has had as much as he can bear 
in this world, from whom shock has shorn away everything, 
even the power to feel joy. 

" I fell asleep, I think,"" he said uncertainly. " I suppose 
you have come to tell me, Pierre, that it is aU a dream ? "" 

" No, thank the ever-merciful God, it is true. Look in 
your hand ! "" 

The Due de Trelan obeyed him, opening his fingers with 


282 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


difficulty, as if they too were stiff. And he gazed at the 
little locket, at the worn, dangling chain, as a man sleep- 
walking or entranced might gaze. Then he said, in one 
and the same breath, “ canH, it can't be true I must 

start for Mirabel instantly ! and rose to his feet. 

The Abb^ faced him. Something is asked of you, 
Gaston, before you meet her. As a soldier . . . You did 
not hear a horseman gallop into the yard a short time 
ago ? ” 

The sleepwalker shook his head mutely. WTio was 
it ? ” he asked with indifference. 

** A messenger in haste from Georges — ^with great news. 
He brought this. M. du M^nars opened it, and is outside 
now, waiting to consult you.'* And he held out the open 
despatch. 

The wounded man transferred the locket to the keeping 
of his hampered right hand, and took it. A quick touch of 
colour shot into his face as he read, and he bit liis lip hard. 
Then, even paler than before, he held out the letter again. 
" Tell du Menars and de Brencourt to see to it then, Pierre. 
I must start for Mirabel at once." 

The priest said nothing, and made no motion to take 
the despatch, but looked at him with some of his own 
steady colour fading, a most unusual phenomenon. Ah, 
was that inherent wilfulness going to ruin this also ! 

" You do not approve ? " said Gaston de Tr^an sharply. 
" But how could you understand I I would go to her 
over a world in flames ! " 

" And over your own honour, too ? — Gaston, Gaston, 
reflect a moment, I implore you ! Do not spoil this almost 
incredible miracle that God has wTought for 5^u by snatch- 
ing at it before the hour I See how she has been preserved 
for you all these years, how wonderfully the knowledge of 
it has come to light, and have patience a few days longer ! 
For this unexpected coming of arms — ^why, it is the ful- 
filment of your greatest desire ! " 

" I have a greater now," said Gaston de Troian, looking 
far beyond him. " Are you human, Pierre, that you do not 
realise it ? " Cadoudal's despatch was almost crumpled 
to nothing in his clenched hand ; he became aw^are of it. 
" Take this, before I — But, my God, that it should have 
come to-day 1 " 


THE CHOICE 


283 

This time the priest accepted the letter, and retained the 
hand that gave it him as well. “ Mon frere, consider ! 
he said pleadingly. “ It only means the shortest of delays. 
You can hasten to Mirabel aiterwards.” 

'‘Yes,” said his brother with an indescribable intonation, 
” If you will guarantee that I shall still be alive — after- 
wards ! ” And he withdrew his hand. 

There indeed lay the hazard, and they both knew it. 
Disabled, too, as he was, he might well be killed before 
that meeting could take place, for there would be fighting 
over this business of the convoy. And death, the long 
desired, had terrors for him now. 

Nevertheless the little priest did not budge. Gaston 
would thank him for it, he knew, when his brain was clear 
of this tremendous shock. 

“No, my first duty is to her,” went on the Due de Troian 
with aU his old stubbornness. ” I can never offer her 
sufficient reparation ; at least what I can offer her shall be 
instant. And — she may be in danger there ! I have plenty 
of competent officers ; de Brencourt, du Menars can handle 
the men as well as I for this affair. It will not amount to 
more than a skirmish at most — perhaps there will be no 
collision with the Republicans at all.” 

” Then why,” said the Abbe very low, looking at the 
floor, ” did you speak just now of the possibility of your 
falling yourself before you and she could meet ? ” 

His shot went home. The tired eyes flashed like steel. 
” Pierre ! ” said the Due de Trelan in a warning voice. 

The priest raised his head. There were tears in his 
own eyes. ” The men are untried, Gaston, most of them. 
They will follow you, but who really knows whether they 
will follow du Menars ? And the Comte de Brencourt — 
no one knows where he is. There may be no big engage- 
ment with the Republicans over this business, but it will be 
no easy task to cover the disembarkation and get the arms 
away from Sainte-Brigitte. You are a soldier ; I do not need 
to tell you that. With these peasants it will need the 
most skilful leadership. And ... to throw away, after 
all our prayers, the chance of arming Finist^re ! My brother, 
my brother ...” 

But his brother had already turned away and was at the 
window, his back to him, and the priest heard him say in a 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


284 

stifled voice, ** Finistere, Finistere . . . O my God, what a 
refinement of cruelty ! " 

The sun was up now ; the curtain could not withhold it. 
In the silence could be heard the tread of M. du M^nars as 
he walked up and down in the room outside — ^waiting. 
Pierre Chassin looked at the crumpled despatch that he 
held, and its characters seemed to him like the writing 
on the wall. Yet how natural was the impulse to dis- 
regard it — ^how brutal to stand in the way of disregarding 
it. ... But because he loved the man by the window so 
much he struck again at him, and harder. 

You said just now, Gaston, that your first duty was 
to your wife. Yes, I think it is, but only because your 
duty to your King and your position coincide with it — 
risen though she be from the dead. Think for a moment 
of her — ^what she would choose — ^not of your own most 
natural desires ! Which would she have, that you should 
be false to your trust in order to hasten to her, or that you 
fulfil it first, setting her second . . . even ” his voice shook 
a little, “ even if need be, that you should die in fulfilhng 
it. O — forgive me, my brother — ^you know which she 
would have ..." 

But Gaston gave no sign. 

" Forgive me, too," resumed Pierre rather brokenly, 
" for saying things so harsh now ! But this is the testing- 
moment ; you will never meet another more crucial. You 
could not lay before your noble wife a nobler reparation 
than this — ^to put your fidelity to a trust before the instincts 
of your own heart. ..." 

The words died away as his own heart sank. And had 
he gone too far ? He knew that no other man would have 
ventured to say a tithe as much to that haughty and 
wounded spirit. But he knew, too, with conviction, 
that Gaston’s better self must echo every cruel word. 
And as the tall figure still stood motionless, the forehead 
leaning on the bent left arm against the frame of the 
curtained window, Pierre Chassin prayed as he had not 
prayed even for their reunion, that the man faced with so 
tense a choice should not fail. 

** Of course, you have seen her," said the Due at last, 
breaking the vibrating silence, but in a voice that told how 
slowly mental circulation was coming back to him. "You 


THE CHOICE 


285 

have seen her . . . spoken with her ! Pierre, you knew all 
this then — knew and never told me ! — Concierge at Mirabel ! 
It is like a nightmare ! ** 

Indeed there was much to explain — but not now. I 
only knew at the eleventh hour,** said the priest quickly. 
** And under the seal, Gaston ; so I could not tell you. 
My promise to you prevented my telling her before I had 
time to consider whether I were justified in breaking it. 
That time was never given me ; but had I not had to 
leave in such haste I should have told her. But — listen, 
Gaston, for God*s sake — all may yet come right of itself, 
for I pressed her so strongly to come to Brittany in person 
to see the * Marquis de Kersaint,* giving her full directions, 
that I fully believe she will come. And if the sword lies 

between you and that meeting she would urge you ** 

** To take it up,** said the leader of Finistte. Yes, yes. 
You are right. I don*t see things clearly this morning.** 
He drew a long breath, jerked back the httle curtain from 
before the casement, and the risen sun entered gloriously. 
Then he turned round, his figure dark against it, and said, 
in his voice of everyday, 

** Tell du Menars to come in, Pierre.** 

The Abbe went quickly up to him and kissed him. 


CHAPTER X 


** AFTERWARDS 
(I) 

Not Artamene de la Vergne himself had received the com- 
mand to boot and saddle, which set the Clos-aux-Grives in 
such a pleasurable commotion at sunrise that morning, 
more jubilantly than Lucien du Boisfosse. None of the 
three had been more thrilled than he with the joyful news 
about the English frigate and its cargo, and the prospect 
of a brush with the Blues before fliat cargo could be 
secured. 

But alas for those bright anticipations ! The youthful 
philosopher was destined to have no hand in disembarking 
barrels of powder on the beach of Sainte-Brigitte. Because 
M. de Kersaint considered him the youngest officer with a 
head on his shoulders — ^how gladly would poor Lucien 
have foregone that flattering opinion ! — ^he had been left 
behind with thirty men or so to guard the deserted head- 
quarters. And there, late the next afternoon, he still was, 
trying to read Rabelais in the empty ‘ nursery,’ in spite 
of a headache. For on top of his head, bandaged up hke 
a mummy’s, there was a fairly extensive sabre cut — though 
there had been no fighting at the Clos-aux-Grives. But 
Lucien had seen some rather murderous fighting, for all 
that. 

It was M. de Brencourt who was the fons et origo of that 
headache — M. de Brencourt who had so mysteriously 
disappeared, who could not be found for any searching 
before the column started on its march to the sea , . . but 
who had just as mysteriously reappeared, about four hours 
after its departure, to fall into such a paroxysm of rage and 
despair when he learnt what had happened as Lucien hoped 
never to witness again. It was plain that the Comte 
feared Lucien and everyone else would attribute his strange 
defection (of which he offered no explanation) to cowardice, 
an idea which had never entered the youth's head, and 

256 


" AFTERWARDS " 


287 

which he endeavoured tactfully to convey to his superior 
would enter the head of no living man who knew him. In 
the end the Comte did what du Boisfoss4 had seen from the 
first he would do — ^rode off like a madman along the road 
to the sea. 

In a couple of hours he was back again, his roan horse 
a lather. It seemed that when he had got a certain distance 
he had heard a piece of news which had sent him back as 
hard as he could gallop. The Blues had got wind of the 
convoy, and it seemed likely that they would attack the 
Chouans in force from the far side of Sainte Brigitte. That 
could not concern M. de Brencourt now, but what had 
sent him back was the news that a smaller body — of cavalry, 
it was said — were probably setting out to fall upon their 
rear from the north-east. This contingent would pass 
within some six or seven miles of Lanvennec. And, since 
every available Chouan in the district who possessed arms 
had gone with the Marquis de Kersaint, M. de Brencourt 
proposed to take the headquarters guard, all but a man or 
two, and ambush this column at a certain ford which it 
must cross — if he could get there in time. 

It was not for Lucien to protest ; M. de Brencourt was 
not merely his superior ofi&cer, but the second-in-command. 
And the youth was only too pleased at the prospect of 
seeing some fighting after all, and perhaps doing a great 
service to his departed comrades. For this was how its 
originator seemed to regard the enterprise. So they set 
out, and they did get there in time, and yesterday, almost 
at this hour, Lucien had found himself, musket in hand, 
kneehng with the rest behind a fringe of willows on the 
bank of a broadish stream. And as they waited, and the 
willow leaves tickled his nose, M. du Boisfoss^, who had 
only just learnt from the Comte the numerical strength of 
the enemy, began to realise that thirty men, even posted as 
they were, with all the advantage of a surprise, could hardly 
hope to stop or account for two hundred and fifty horsemen, 
and that M. de Brencourt was doing something that was a 
great deal more than rash. Could it be that he wanted 
to get himself killed ? If so, he possibly had a right to 
indulge this fancy, but hardly to include him, du Boisfosse, 
and the major part of the headquarters guard in his desire. 
However . . . 


288 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Now, looking back on yesterday's mSlee, the young philo- 
sopher, though he had no reason to modify this view of the 
Comte’s motives when he remembered how recklessly that 
gentleman had exposed himself throughout, knew at 
least that the second-in-command could congratulate him- 
self on having caused the foe, after all, something worse 
than confusion and delay. For the Repubhcans, counting 
presumably on annexing the English muskets to their 
own use, had with them, and in the front of the column too, 
some empty ammunition waggons, and these were their 
bane. At the very first volley, poured into their un- 
suspecting ranks just as they were about to ford the 
stream, the now riderless horses of one of these waggons 
had dashed down into the river, and being there instantly 
shot, and the waggon overturned by their dying struggles, 
the narrow passage was for some time entirely blocked, 
while a hail of bullets came from the invisible marksmen 
on the opposite bank. Undoubtedly the Blues lost their 
heads in the surprise of it, or they would have rushed the 
ford and discovered how hghtly it was held, but in the tur- 
moil many saddles were emptied before the passage was 
clear. When at last they splashed over they were in too 
much haste to investigate the willows, but their infuriated 
rear ranks, without drawing rein, did use the sabre on any- 
one they could see — and Lucien happened to be one of 
these. 

He woke up to find himself lying on the trampled, 
muddy bank, amid a strong smell of bruised peppermint. 
M. de Brencourt himself was bathing his head, and told him 
that he had had a nasty knock, but that, luckily, the blade 
had turned. Two of their men had been less fortunate. 

But the ford ! Lucien dreamed of it that night ; yet 
what he still saw with most particularity was none of the 
slain cavalrymen, but one dead rawboned chestnut horse, 
which lay pathetically with outstretched neck in the stream 
which was not deep enough to float it, the cut traces bobbing 
on the current. 

And now the youth, relieved of his command, since the 
Comte was at the farmhouse, sat in the nursery and longed 
for its other occupants. M. de Brencourt had been un- 
wontedly genial to him, and really solicitous about his 
hurt, but his manner was sometimes very strange, he was 


'' AFTERWARDS 


289 

restless to an extraordinary degree, and looked as if he 
had not slept for nights. And though rumours were begin- 
ning to come in of the complete success of the expedition, 
rumours indeed that it had beaten off the enemy and was 
on its way back with what it had gone to fetch, M. de Ker- 
saint's chief of staff seemed in no way uplifted by them. 
Lucien could not make him out. 

He was in fact thinking about him now when the door 
of the nursery opened a little way and a small barefooted 
boy looked timi^y in. 

Hallo ! ** said the yoimg man. " What do you want, 
mon gars ? Come in ! '* 

“ Yes, go in, child, and tell us what you want," com- 
manded de Brencourt, appearing at that moment behind 
him. " Why, you are from the Ferme des Vieilles, are you 
not — Le Ble-aux-Champs’ brother ? " 

The boy, half frightened, half alert, looked up with dark 
eyes at the gentleman who had him by the shoulder. "Yes, 
Monsieur le Comte." 

" You came to see if he was back, I suppose ? " 

" No, Monsieur le Comte. I came on a message," said 
the boy, rubbing one bare and dirty foot against tie ankle 
of the other. " I knew they were not back. But soon they 
will be. There is dust hanging over the road from the 
sea." 

" Ah, a good scout already," observed M. de Brencourt, 
releasing him. " How is that head, du Boisfosse ? " 

" Better, thank you, sir," responded Lucien poUtely. 
" How soon do you think they will be here ? " 

The Comte gave an odd little movement of the shoulders, 
as if to say that the matter did not interest him. He was 
certainly very strange. 

" Well, and what did you come here for, child ? " he asked 
carelessly. 

" Only to say that there is a lady from Paris at our farm," 
responded the small messenger, " and that she wishes to 
wait on M. le Marquis when he returns. That is all. 
Monsieur." 

It seemed, however, to be more than enough for the 
Comte de Brencourt. He grabbed hold of the smah 
shoulder again, almost throwing the child off his 
balance. 


X 


290 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


What did you say ! A lady from Paris asking for the 
Marquis ? 

Yes,” said the boy, wriggling ; and his face turned 
sulky, just like his elder brother’s. 

” Well, go on I ” said the Comte, shaking him. 

There is nothing else,” muttered Mercury. ” She came 
yesterday. She is waiting. And when M. le Marquis 
returns . . . Let me go. Monsieur le Comte — I have to 
drive the cow home.” 

Without another word M. de Brencourt dragged the 
boy out of the room. The expression on his face was 
startling. So was the amazement on Lucien's. 

And about two minutes later the young man was craning 
his swathed head recklessly out of the window. There had 
been a sudden clatter of hoofs on the cobbles of the yard, 
but the rider was already gone. 

” Well,” thought M. du Boisfosse, “the mysterious lady 
may have intended to interview M. le Marquis, but I think 
it is M. le Comte whom she will see first. Here, perhaps, 
is some explanation of — everything ! Oh, why are Roland 
and Artamene not back 1 ” 


(2) 

They were not far away. That dust above the road from 
the sea hung over a column winding triumphantly along, 
with a string of country carts in its midst piled high with 
the cases and barrels which, since dawn, they had been 
receiving from the English sailors on the beach at Sainte- 
Brigitte. The Chouans were intoxicated with their success ; 
had they not yesterday, before ever arriving at the little 
bay, routed what seemed to them a huge body of Blues ; 
had not hostile cavalry, too, broken harmlessly during the 
night on the covering force which M. le Marquis had so 
wisely stationed on the road to protect his operations ? 
Vaguely they themselves realised that they had been 
brilliantly handled, and assented without hesitation to the 
opinion of hardbitten veterans of former wars like Sans- 
Souci and Fleur d'Epine when they said, ” We have a great 
general — another Charette, perhaps.” 

At the head of his victorious array, rather weary from 
strain and want of sleep, his right arm still in a sling, but 
erect and easy as ever, rode Gaston de Trelan on the beau- 


AFTERWARDS 


291 


tiful black horse which had once been Marthe de la Vergne*s. 
By his side was M. du Menars, and the two were already 
discussing the best method of distributing the muskets 
and ammunition through the department, and how far they 
would meet their needs till the gold of Mirabel could procure 
more. 

Still, this is an excellent beginning,*' observed M. du 
Menars contentedly. '' We shall be in soon now. ... I 
wonder if we shall find any news of de Brencourt when we 
get back ? His disappearance at this juncture is the most 
inexplicable thing I ever heard of. Has it occurred to you. 
Marquis, that it might conceivably be the result of foul 
play ? " 

His leader looked round at him, evidently startled. 
Du Menars knew that he had had very little time for any 
speculation about his missing subordinate. 

" Foul play ? " he ejaculated. No, I had not thought 
of that. I know no more than you why . . . My God ! " 

And his horse suddenly bounded forward as if he had 
unconsciously driven in the spurs. Checking him, he 
turned his head sharply aside, then addressed his aide-de- 
camp over his shoulder. 

** Monsieur de Celigny, have the goodness to ride back 
till you come to the Abbe, and tell him that I must speak 
to him at once. I will wait for him here, by the side of the 
road. Don’t halt the column, du Menars ; go on and I will 
catch you up.” 

And as Roland turned to obey he rode across to the 
side of the road, and sat there waiting while the ranks 
trudged past. In these, sooner or later, would come the 
Abbe, who always marched with the men. At last the 
priest came abreast, and stepping aside, stood by the black 
horse and its rider, while the loaded carts and their escort 
passed. When the embroidered jacket, baggy breeches 
and wide-brimmed hat of the last Chouan had gone by, his 
foster-brother swung off his steed. His face was fearfully 
stem. 

” Pierre,” he said in a voice unlike his own, ” a terrible 
thought has just come to me. I cannot understand why 
I have not had it earlier. As de Brencourt knew my wife 
in the old days,” he paused ; the priest guessed only too 
well what was coming, ” — as he luiew her personally, he 


292 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


must have been aware that she was alive — ^was at Mirabel — 
and . . . deliberately kept the knowledge from me!” 

The priest looked down at the dusty road. ‘'lam afraid 
that he did, Gaston.'' 

“ God ! " said Gaston de Trelan, and smote his fist upon 
his saddle. The thoroughbred reared a little, and the 
Abbe caught the reins. 

“ I tried to force him to tell you. But my own position 
was so difficult,” he began. 

“To keep silent after I had consented to meet him,” 
exclaimed the Due, his eyes blazing, ” after he had taken 
my hand ... it revolts me ! I can hardly beheve it — 
be quiet. Zephyr ! ” 

” He was mad, I suppose, at seeing her again,” said the 
priest, shaking his head. ” It has revolted me, too. Per- 
haps his disappearance — Where are you going, Gaston ? ” 

For M. de Trelan, already back in the saddle, was turning 
his horse’s head in the opposite direction. 

” I must get away for a little,” he said, very grim. ” This 
is a thunderbolt — ^horrible. I must have time to get 
accustomed to it before I can face anybody. Go on after 
the men, Pierre ; do not get left behind.” 

He set spurs to his horse in earnest ; Zephyr went half 
across to the opposite bank, tried vainly to get his head 
down, and next moment was going down the road like an 
arrow, and, annoyed at his cavalier treatment, pulling so 
hard that for a moment or two his rider thought that he 
would prove too much for his bridle hand, and regretted 
his disabled right arm. The struggle for mastery, how- 
ever, gave him some physical relief in the black whirlwind 
of repulsion and horror that had broken on him. Between 
the demands of leadership and the overwhelming news 
about his wife, he had had no time or inclination these 
two days to think out the part de Brencourt had played 
— scarcely time, indeed, till this homeward march, to think 
of him at all, in spite of his singular disappearance. And 
now the realisation of the Comte’s cold-blooded treachery 
and deceit, coming on top of his provocations, on top of the 
duel, on top of his own sparing of him, despite his resolve 
to the contrary — for Gaston de Trelan was no more ex- 
clusively right-handed than another — and, most repulsive 
of all, on top of their reconciliation ... it was surely 


“ AFTERWARDS " 


293 


enough to put any decent man beside himself, and how 
much more the man who had been his victim ! He turned 
Zephyr on to a track that made for the lande, and for a 
space, in which time hardly seemed to exist, galloped him 
madly over the heather. 

Gradually he began to regain control over himself, too. 
The man had probably taken himself off for good ; though 
he could never forgive him, nor forget what he had done, 
he would not be called upon to meet him again. And he 
had not succeeded in his devil’s work. So he himself would 
rather think of this tremendous news of Valentine’s survival 
— if indeed it were not after all some mistake, some 
cruel imposture, which he would discover for such when he 
got to Mirabel. 

— No, the evidence was too strong ! She was there — • 
no impostress, but the real Valentine ; not the dead 
Valentine whom he had grown to love and look to, but 
the hving. And so their meeting was to be in this world 
after all — though he himself in the last few days had so 
nearly gone to another. And how would the hving Valen- 
tine receive him ? Perhaps she would altogether turn 
from him. Could he blame her if she did ? 

He rode off the lande by way of the Ferme des Vieilles, 
Z&^hyr by this time quieted, indeed exhausted. Poor 
Zephyr ! ” said his master remorsefully. ** Because I 
have been treated like a brute, I have treated you hke 
one ! ” 

As he drew near the farm he saw the old mother of the 
family outside, \dolently agitating her arms and crpng, 
“ Monsieur le Marquis ! Monsieur le Marquis ! ” 

He drew rein. " What is it, mother ? Your sons are 
safe ; Le Ble-aux-Champs has done very well.” 

The old woman’s wrinlded face lighted up. ” Ste. Anne 
be praised ! But it is not that. Monsieur le Marquis. I 
thought I had better make sure if you had met the lady 
out there on the lande — among the Stones, I think she is.” 

” Lady ! what lady ? ” 

” You have not come from the Clos-aux-Grives, then ? 
You have not had the message I sent by Yvot ? ” 

” What message ? — No, I have not been there yet. Out 
with it, in Heaven’s name I ” 

” A lady has come from Paris to see you. Monsieur le 


294 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Marquis ; she arrived yesterday. So we gave her a bed 
here — poor lying, but the best we could do till you ** 

“ Here I Now ! With you ? ” And in a second he 
was on the road by her side. 

Ma Doue, Monsieur le Marquis, how you startled me, 
getting off so quickly ! No, she is not here now — she went 
out on the lande a little while ago, and I thought I saw 
her walking in the AUee. Being from Paris she does not 
imderstand how evil they are, the Old Ones, about sundown, 
though I warned her . . . Bless us. Monsieur le Marquis, 
you look as if someone had put a spell on you ! 

For, stricken witli an odd silence, and very pale, the 
leader of Finistere had taken a step or two backwards, 
till he was brought up by his horse’s quarter, and there he 
was staring at her, his hand to his head. 

“ No, it is the breaking of a spell, please God ! ” said he, 
recovering himself. “ I will go and find this lady on the 
lande. It may be that . . . that she wiU not return to 
you. Mere Salaun." 

He took Zephyr by the bridle, and went back on to the 
heather. But, once out of sight, he drew a long shuddering 
breath, and throwing his arm over Zephyr’s crest, pressed 
his forehead against the warm satin of his neck, and so 
remained for a while. 

And Zephyr, convinced by now that the master he knew 
had returned to him, put his head round and lipped at his 
shoulder. Then he cocked his little ears and listened. 
Far away, the beat of another horse’s hoofs was audible 
on the highroad. His rider gave no sign of having heard 
it, but in a moment or two took the bridle again and went 
forward towards the AUee des Vieilles. 


CHAPTER XI 

AMONG THE WATCHERS 

(I) 

Versailles, Dreux, Alen^on, Rennes, Pontivy — ^like beads 
on a chaplet they had slid past Valentine de Trelan, Uke 
locks on a smooth river or canal, opened for her by that 
bit of paper in Barras' handwriting. She was herself 
amazed by the ease of her journey, that journey which 
was really a flight, hardly realising how much things were 
changed from the days, for instance, of the Terror, and 
how many people travelled comfortably now-a-days and 
contrived to elude showing their passports if they were 
out of date. And she had in her possession something 
much more potent than a mere passport. Whether she 
were taken for a political power, or for one of the many 
ladies in whom the raffish Director was interested — or for a 
combination of both, hke Mme Tallien — Valentine neither 
knew nor cared ; at any rate whenever she produced the 
laissez passer she was shown deference — till she got into 
the country districts of that land of the leal, farther Brit- 
tany. Here the municipalities indeed were Republican, 
but at one or two small places where she had to halt Barras* 
signature commanded anything but reverence, though it 
had to be obeyed. Twice she distinctly heard the word 
“ spy *' whispered of her. 

But once she had passed Scaer and was in full Finistdre 
it was better, for here she could use the private directions 
which the Abbe had given her. And it was by the employ- 
ment of these that she finally arrived, without mishap, at 
the Ferme des Vieilles, to which the Abb^ had directed her. 

The little old farmhouse by the roadside looked at her 
cunningly and rather inhospitably, she thought, from its 
tiny peering windows. Beyond it was a wide stretch of 
moorland with heather, and, in one place, long strange rows 
of upright stones. She descended from the farmer’s 

295 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


296 

hooded cart by which she had replaced the diligence at 
her last stopping-place and knocked at the open half- 
door. Inside, a beautiful, grave and dirty little girl of six 
or so, dressed in aU respects like a grown woman of the 
sixteenth century, stuck a finger in her mouth and stared 
at her. 

“ Mignonne,*' said Valentine, stooping over the half-door 
“ Ema ar hleun er halan — the broom is in flower.*' 

“ Tremenet er ar goanv — the winter is past,’* responded 
an old woman, coming into view. Enter, Madame ! ** 

Half an hour later Valentine was being served with a 
rough meal, the children standing round, awed, and she 
had learnt all there was to know; how the Marquis de 
Kersaint and practically all the officers from the head- 
quarters, even the aumonier, were gone to the sea to fetch 
a convoy of arms, and that to interview the man whom 
she had come so far to meet she must wait, probably, till 
the day after to-morrow. Meanwhile Mere Salaun offered 
her hospitality, premising (and justly) that it was not fit 
for a lady from Paris. 

And indeed Mme de Trelan slept but ill that night in the 
lit clos put at her disposal, though she had known in prison 
much less comfortable sleeping-places. But it was not only 
the imwonted experience of passing the night in a sort of 
hutch which kept her wakeful, it was partly the dread lest 
M. de Kersaint should never return from this expedition — 
for she had been told there would be fighting. 

No news next morning, but a rumour that there had been 
a fierce encounter between the Chouans and the Blues. 
Valentine was restless. She would have hked to go to the 
Clos-aux-Grives, but thought it would be unfitting ; and it 
was besides unnecessary, since Mere Salaun had instituted 
the ten-year-old Yvot as a courier. 

So she walked on the lande, where the wind blew over the 
wide spaces, and tried to be patient. 

Vffiat are those great avenues of stones that I saw in 
the distance this morning ? *’ she asked at the mid-day 
meal. There seem to be miles of them.** 

Those, Madame,** said her hostess, pouring out the 
milk for the children, are Les Vieilles, the Old Ones, the 
Old Women. Some call them Les V eilleuses, the Watchers. * * 


AMONG THE WATCHERS 


297 

Your farm is, then, named after them ? commented 
Mme de Trelan. 

“ Unfortunately,'* replied Mere Salaun, compressing her 
wrinkled lips. And seeing Valentine's look of enquiry, she 
went on, ** They are not . . . not benevolent, Les Vieilles. 
Do not go among them much, Madame, especially after 
sundown, if you want to keep the wish of your heart. For 
if they can they will take it from you." 

What a strange idea ! " Who set them up ? " asked the 

Duchesse. 

Mere Salaun shook her head. " We do not know. Fetch 
Madame’s crepe from the hearth, Corentine." 

Little Yvot fidgeted. " But, Madame," he broke in, 
in his shrill voice, " nobody set them up. A long while 
ago they were a queen’s ladies, and a magician turned 
them into stones. And on one night in the year, on 
Midsummer Eve, they leave their places one by one and 
go to the pool to drink — ^because you see, Madame, they 
were ahve once, and they are still thirsty. Some people 
think they eat, too, and put food for them. And as they 
go in turn to drink you can see the gold underneath, and 
the rich ornaments, in the place they have left ! " 

" And do people go on that night to take it ? " asked 
Mme de Trelan as he paused for breath. 

Yvot’s eyes grew bigger and his tanned little face paled, 
while his grimy hand made a rapid sign of the cross over 
himself. " God forbid ! There was a man once — ^he went 
to get the gold — folks begged him not to. He never came 
back ! " 

" Well, what happened to him ? " asked Valentine, 
interested less in the tale than in the narrator — and some- 
what appalled at the gigantic pancake, nearly a quarter of 
an inch in thickness, which had appeared before her. 

" The menhir came back from the pond and caught him ! 
He is underneath it to-day— the one they call La Bossue, 
the Hunchback. You can hear him groaning and praying 
to be let out sometimes. He has been there for seventy 
years ! " 

At this climax one of the smaller children burst into 
tears, and Yvot was angrily commanded by his mother to 
get on with his dinner. But she, too, signed herself. 

Nevertheless Valentine found herself among the stone 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


298 

avenues that evening. No news had come yet, but the 
AUee was at such a short distance from the farm that if it 
came she could easily be informed. 

So she walked among the menhirs, Les Vieilles, Les Veil- 
leuses, and the menhirs watched her as she went, and she 
knew it. They were yellow with lichen, rust-red with it, 
grey with it ; the heather was about their deep roots, 
older than the oldest trees. Ancient, terrible, venerable, 
four ranks of them, they marched for ever up the rise and 
over it towards some invisible goal. Valentine de Troian 
with her forty-five years felt very young, very ignorant 
beside them. 

They had been here — planted by whom, and why ? — 
long, long before the overturned order of yesterday ; long 
before its pillars had been laid, long before Clovis and 
Charlemagne ; they would still be here when the name 
of the last King of France was forgotten. As she stood 
among them she knew that she was in the oldest place of 
this old land of Armorica. They were the more living in 
semblance, the more individual, these grey shapes, because 
their slope was not alike, any more than their forms. Some 
leant this way, some that ; some were grotesque, some 
more than grotesque ; yet whatever were the purpose 
that possessed them, it possessed them even terribly. 
Valentine wondered which was the " hunchback ” of the 
evil legend . . . She was afraid of them ; and yet they 
fascinated her. 

And as she walked between their ranks she wondered 
how much longer she would have to wait before she saw 
the Marquis de Kersaint. How calmly, at the Ferme des 
Vieilles, they took this fighting — all the men away with 
M. le Marquis as a matter of course. Was it true, she had 
asked, that Cadoudal in the Morbihan had ordered all his 
young men not to marry for the present ? Quite true. 
And they were not marrying ? No. What a people to 
lead, and what a leader ! 

What should she do after she had talked with the 
Marquis ? It depended on what he told her. In any case 
she was come to the beginning of a new chapter in what 
was left to her of the book of her life. Would Gaston’s 
name be on those pages — and in what characters would it 
be written ? 


AMONG THE WATCHERS 


299 


It had been a grey day, austere, not unbeautiful. Now, 
at the approach of sunset, it was warming into a certain 
splendour. The shadows of the watchers began to slant 
across the avenue like scores of pointing fingers, and at 
the other end the pine trees on the rise grew darker against 
what would soon be a battlemented glory of cloud. And 
after sundown it was sinister here, they said ; Valentine 
could believe it, but the watchers had some spell to make 
one linger. . . . 

It was as she turned from looking at the distant pines 
and the sunset that she became aware she was not alone 
in the AUee des Vieilles. Some way off a man was standing 
by one of the tallest menhirs ; indeed, she almost thought 
that he was leaning against it. It gave her a start at first 
to find that, when she had thought she was alone, she was 
being observed. He must have ridden up unheard on the 
heather, for outside the double avenue a black horse was 
bending its head towards that arid nourishment. All 
she could see of its rider at this distance was that he was 
tall, that he wore a long close-fitting dark redingo te, that 
he had a white sash round his middle, and a sword. 

All at once she thought, “ How stupid of me ; it is a 
Royalist, one of M. de Kersaint’s officers, probably, back 
from the fighting. Perhaps it is even M. de Kersaint 
himself, ridden over from his headquarters, on hearing 
that I am here, to wait on me. That is very courteous 
of him. But why, since he must see me, does he not move, 
or come to meet me ? . . . Perhaps, if he is from the fight- 
ing, he is hurt." And then indeed she saw that he carried 
his right arm in a sling. 

She began in her turn to go towards him. Still she 
could not see his face ; he had his hat rammed low over 
his eyes. In the hat, as she now noticed for the first time, 
was a white plume. That feather showed her that it must 
be M. de Kersaint himself, and her heart beat a little faster. 
Yet how strange of him to remain covered when, plainly, 
he must see her advancing, and not to move a step to meet 
her. But she went on nevertheless, till only ten yards or 
so separated them. 

And the Royalist still stood motionless, the sunset glow 
falling on him, watching her so intently that he gave the 
effect of holding his breath. Valentine began to be a 


300 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


little frightened ; his behaviour 'was so unaccountable. 
And suddenly the old Breton woman’s warning came back 
to her. Was the wish of her heart, then, going to be reft 
from her here among Les Vieilles ; was she to learn from 
this man, among the covetous old stones, that Gaston 
was dead — to learn it this time -without possibility of 
doubt ? Was that why he was so still — because he Imew 
her errand ? She stopped. 

Her stopping seemed to galvanise the watcher into hfe. 
He moved a httle forward from the menhir which had been 
supporting him, and put up his left hand to his hat as 
though to remove it. But still he did not take it off. 

“ Madame de Trelan ! ” 

That voice ! . . . 

She quivered as though she had been shot and put her 
hands to her breast. “ Dear God ! ” she said. “ Who is 
it ? mo is it ? ” 

Valentine ! ” said the voice again. 

And in a single movement the Royalist officer uncovered, 
flung his hat from him, and was at her feet. But even 
-with the pre-vdous warning of the voice, even vrith his 
tardy uncovering, the shock was too much for a woman 
who was no longer young. It was as one sees something 
a long way off that she saw him kneeling there -with bent 
head ; but when he raised it, and his face w^as visible, the 
blood drummed in her ears. The grey watchers bowed 
suddenly towards her, the heather began to give way 
beneath her feet. “ Gaston ! ” she sighed, putting out her 
hands helplessly like a frightened child, “ Gaston — I’m 
falling ! . . .” The heather gave way altogether. . . . 

(2) 

The cold grey sea on which Valentine had been floating 
hither and thither began a little to cease its swaying motion. 
. . . But how curious to be on a sea at aU ! Yet she could 
hear it ... no, it was the -wind in the pine avenue at 
Mirabel. But the pine avenue was nearly aU cut do-svn 
now ... It was neither, neither. She was lying in strong 
arms that held her close, against a heart whose pulsations 
she could hear. It began to come back. That figure by 
the menhir ! 0, Christ in Heaven ! — ^but that was a 
dream ! 


AMONG THE WATCHERS 


301 


Yet kisses, not the kisses of a dream, were being laid on 
her closed eyes, her hair, her brow — though none upon her 
lips — and with them went passionate words of supplication 
for forgiveness, and words of a meaning far transcending 
that . . . words of love, heartbroken words. But he who 
thus addressed her must have thought her stiU unconscious 
when he dared to speak them, for when she opened her 
eyes and stirred she was very gently laid down out of his 
grasp upon the heather, and this Royalist officer who was 
her husband knelt silently there beside her, with his face 
buried in his hands. 

At that relaxing hold Valentine might have thought — 
a thousand things — but, dizzy and confused though she 
still was, she had heard, and felt. There was no room for 
surmises or mistakes. 

“ Gaston,” she said faintly, lingering on the name. 

O Gaston ... if you are real . . . your arms ! ” 

His hands came down, and she saw his face, ravaged, 
older, infinitely changed. 

” Dare I hold you in my arms, Valentine ? ” He was 
shaking as he said it. 

From where she lay she gave him one look, and held out 
her hands the second time. 

” O my wife, my saint ! ” said Gaston de Trelan, choking. 
He stooped and gathered her once more to his breast. 

And, after all, so unbefievable was it, that the long 
embrace did seem to belong to another world than this — 
a far world, but the only rei. ... 

That passed. The heather became heather again, the 
air the air of earth. Somehow he was helping the fiving 
Valentine whom he held to her feet, and was leading her 
towards the nearest menhir — that indeed against which 
he had himself been leaning. Directly he saw that she could 
stand alone, and could take some support, if she wished it, 
from the great granite finger, he threw himself on his knees 
before her. 

** Valentine, this is where I should be ! ” he broke out 
uncontrollably, “here, at your feet, not holding you in 
my arms. I am not worthy of that, Valentine — ^Valentine, 
how can I even ask for forgiveness ? But I do ask for it 
— I do ask ! For seven years I have sought it, and I have 
sometimes felt that you . . . where I thought you had 


302 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


gone, had given it to me.’* His voice broke, and, stooping 
that proud head of his, he did literally kiss her feet. 

“ Gaston, if you love me ! ” she cried out, trying to stay 
him. ” No, no . . . and what talk is this of forgiveness ? 

0 my darling, I was wrong too — stubborn and proud. 

1 should have gone with you — and afterwards . . . you 
never got my letters, I know it, but I should have written 
again, made more efforts. O Gaston, if you love me, 
don’t do that ! ” 

He lifted his head. Letters ! ” he said in a dazed 
way. ’‘You wrote . . . you had no answer ? I never 
had them ! — Valentine,” and there was anguish in his voice, 
“ you did not think I received them . . . and left them 
unanswered ! ” 

” No, no ! ” she said. ” No, my heart ! We will talk 
of that presently ; there is so much to say. Only now, 
Gaston — I cannot bear to see you kneel to me, my husband.” 

” But there is more than that,” he said, not without 
difficulty. ” More than my having left you to face . . . 
horrors. The years before ” 

” I do not remember the years before,” answered Valen- 
tine. 

” At least,” said he, very low, ” the years since have 
been yours alone.” And still kneeling there, but with his 
arms about her, as she stooped to him he kissed her on the 
lips. 

Afterwards she sat propped against the menhir, and her 
husband half sat, half knelt beside her, holding her hands 
and gazing at her as at what indeed she was, one returned 
from the dead. Very briefly, and only under the pressure 
of his questions, for she, too, desired chiefly to contemplate 
him, she had given him the outline of that past nine years, 
sliding as quickly as possible over the massacres and her 
subsequent year in prison, because he turned so pale that 
she feared he would faint next. And he had been wounded 
. . . but he said that it was an old injury — ^nothing . . . 

” And now, Gaston,” she said breathlessly, you — what 
are you doing here with this M. de Kersaint ? Is he really 
a kinsman — is that why you are here ? At first — ^before I 
reco^ised you — I thought you must be he.” 

His grasp tightened on her hands, and before he answered 


AMONG THE WATCHERS 


303 


he put them to his lips. " You were not mistaken, Valen- 
tine. That has been my name for seven years, since you 
. . . died. O, my wife he almost crushed her hand, 
are you ahve — ^is it not some phantasy, some illusion of 
this place ** 

** What ! she broke in, the colour rushing over her face 
and fleeing again, you are M. de Kersaint — ^it was you 
at Rivoli — ^it is you who command Finistere for the King 
. . . that scarf means 

Quite suddenly she drew away her hands and putting 
them over her face burst into tears. 


CHAPTER XII 

THE CENTRE OF THE LABYRINTH 
(I) 

From the clump of pines on the rise the view down the 
Alice des Vieilles, with the sunset light on it, was extensive, 
and figures half a mile away were tolerably clear. The 
Comte de Brencourt had learnt at the farm that he was too 
late, but he had come on nevertheless. He had not reached 
his vantage point in time to witness the actual moment of 
meeting, but, though faces were of course indistinguishable 
at that distance, he had seen enough. And, grinding his 
teeth, with strange red spasmodic waves passing across 
his eyesight, so that from time to time he could see nothing 
at aU, he stiU waited in the shadow of the clump. He had 
not known why — till a few minutes ago, when they had 
started to walk this way. 

Yes, he knew now why he had come, and why he had 
endured that hell. But they walked so slowly — and he did 
not want to kill her too. Her husband’s arm was about 
her, and her head rested against him. Zephyr followed, 
with his incomparable grace of movement, trying now and 
then to twitch a mouthful of something edible from among 
the heather. They were only a couple of hundred yards 
away now. What was this in his own hand — yes, of course, 
his pistol. And it was not moonlight this time, but 
strong level sunlight, falling in the right direction. A 
hundred and fifty yards. His hand must not shake now. 
But he must be very careful. If only de Trelan would take 
his arm away, curse him ! A hundred and twenty yards, 
a hundred yards. . . . 

If Valentine de Trelan had not worn that look, who 
knows what might not have happened, whether the 
menhirs would not have had their wish, and taken her 

304 


THE CENTRE OF THE LABYRINTH 305 

heart’s desire from her. But what, when she was near 
enough, he who loved her in his own fashion could read 
on her face was both shield and sword. Crazed though he 
was at the moment, it smote the pistol from his hand, the 
very impulse to use it from his heart. The glory that she 
wore was not forgiveness, or reconciliation, or the transient 
joy of a great wonder, but absolute, perfect, rounded 
happiness, tranquHlised ecstasy. Then all those years 
of desertion were nothing ; all those years when Gaston 
de Troian had followed strange fires were nothing ; all the 
time in Mirabel, then, she had been thinking of him, had 
perhaps gone there for the sake of his memory — all her 
life, perhaps, she had been a ship beating against contrary 
winds to a haven he had not thought existed. And now she 
was in harbour — ^no doubt of that ! 

She has the face of a saint in Paradise ! ” he said to 
himself, trembling. At her husband’s he cast no look ; 
he mattered less than nothing to him. 

Vain, then, his own faithfulness to her, that had led him 
into such crooked and faithless paths, vain his endeavours, 
stained with his own dishonour, to keep them apart. She 
had loved him all the time, and now . . . 

There was no more to say or do. Ite, missa est. Artus 
de Brencourt stumbled down the slope, blinded less by the 
sunset’s exultation as he turned than by that sight, mounted 
and rode off, more cold and grey than the immemorial 
watchers, with eyes from which not even hate looked out 
any more. 

No, one thing remained to do, and that quickly. He 
would have wished to return to the Clos-aux-Grives for a 
few moments first, but that was impossible, for he would 
risk meeting them — ^if he brought her there. Nor did he 
want to do it too near headquarters. If he could light on 
a place with sufficient cover there was a chance that his 
body would never be found at all. He would prefer that 
— ^not to give de Troian the satisfaction of knowing how 
thoroughly he had worsted him. 

And, surely, this oak thicket a little off the road would 
serve, for the road was lonely enough. He could not wait 
to find a better spot, for a thirst was on him to be gone. 
He had done a thing for which there was no forgiveness 
this side death — a thing for which he had no intention of 
u 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


306 

asking forgiveness — and, what was far more terrible to him, 
had done it in vain. 

He dismounted at the entry to the copse. What should 
he do with his horse, whose presence might betray his 
own ? A moment’s reflection, and he turned the animal’s 
head away from the direction of the Clos-aux-Grives, and, 
drawing his sword, smote it hard on the flank with the flat. 
The beast reared, capered, and bolted down the road. 
Then, dropping the sword, M. de Brencourt plunged into 
the thicket. 

It was not as dense as he had thought, but at the foot 
of this oak tree he would be quite invisible from the road. 
He had no last message to leave other than those he had 
written on the night of the duel and, as it happ)ened, left 
imdestroyed afterwards. He had no last thoughts, for he 
was incapable of any thought but one, and as for prayer, 
a man had no right to it who was doing what he was doing. 
Nevertheless once familiar words drifted through his brain 
and out again as he knelt down by the oak-tree’s strong old 
roots, ** . . . pray for us sinners now and in the hour of 
our death ”... but they scarcely had meaning, and his 
mind seemed only a blank of wreathing fog as he put the 
pistol to his ear. 

The weapon remained there for perhaps eight seconds, 
then sank. 

For there comes a point when the machinery that the 
brain controls will not revolve any longer. Artus de Bren- 
court had come to that point now. Ridden as he had 
recently been with the most devastating emotions, tom 
with hatred and more than half mad with jealousy, having 
twice tried and failed to kill the man he hated, having 
lived by day on the edge of a volcano and having scarcely 
slept by night, he had now to face the most shattering 
experience of all — itself the direct outcome of the others. 
He lacked the nerve to kill himself. 

Only the tiniest muscular action was needed, the pres- 
sure of a finger, and he had not the will power left for it. 
Kneeling there, the sweat pouring off his face, he tried 
. . . and could not. His hand would not even hold the 
weapon in position. He who but a httle while ago had 
tried to sted another man’s life from him had not courage 
left to take his own. 


THE CENTRE OF THE LABYRINTH 307 

The discovery, stark and sickening, broke the violent, 
passion-tossed man to pieces, broke him utterly. Never 
in his life had he known the taste of physical cowardice 
tiU now. A horrible nausea came over him, and he fell 
forward on his face at the foot of the oak tree and lay there, 
beaten at last — lay there while an oak leaf settled on his 
hair and his horse, returning, trotted past again in the 
direction of headquarters. But he did not hear it. 

(2) 

Complicated emotions of some violence had assailed M. 
Chassin when he reached the Clos-aux-Grives and heard 
from Lucien the story of the ford, and how M. de Brencourt 
had recently ridden off in haste — and especially when he 
learnt why he had thus ridden off. And at that piece of 
news — since the lady from Paris ” awaiting the Marquis 
could be no other than Mme de Troian herself — M. Chassin 
also, abandoning his duties towards the wounded, rushed 
out of the farmhouse, a prey at the same time to he knew 
not what dire premonitions, and to a joy and thankfulness 
beyond words. 

Yet where was he to go, and what was he to do ? He 
found himself setting out as fast as he could go for the 
Ferme des VieiUes, become now a species of rendezvous. 
But he had hardly gone a mile, his soutane well tucked up, 
when between heat, fatigue and apprehension he w'as 
asking himself why in the name of all the saints he had not 
borrowed a horse. And instantly the saints sent him 
one. It came trotting leisurely down the road towards 
him, its bridle dangling, a riderless horse — more, a horse 
that he recognised. It was the Comte de Brencourt’s 
roan. 

The Abb^ stood in the dust and smote his brow. What 
did this portend ? At any rate he would utilise the steed. 
He caught it as it passed, girt his soutane still higher, 
mounted and pursued his road. And as he went he looked 
from side to side, but he would not have thought of entering 
the oak copse when he came to it, had not his eye been 
attracted by something that glinted at the side of the road 
— ^the sword that lay there. 

The Abb^ dismounted, without grace, and picked it up. 
He seemed to have seen it before, though, after all, one 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


308 

sword was very much like another. Perhaps the thicket 
would 3 deld some explanation of the mystery. He tied 
up the roan and went in. 

But, in a sense, the thicket only yielded him another 
mystery. For, on the root of an oaktree, with a pistol 
l 5 dng on the ground beside him, was quietly seated M. de 
Brencourt, writing something on his knee. M. Chassin, 
having expected anything in the world but this sight, 
stood speechless, his cassock tucked about his waist and 
the drawn sword in his hand. After a moment the Comte 
lifted his head, looked at him, and seemed, with an effort — 
or that was the effect he gave — to recognise him. 

" I was writing to you, Abb6,” he said. “You are the 
person I want.’* 

The voice, very flat and monotonous, was unlike his 
own. So was his face. His eyes were someone else’s. 
The Abbe did not like them. 

“ I have your horse. Monsieur le Comte, and your sword, 
I think,’’ he said, for want of anything better. 

“ Thank you,’’ said the stranger under the tree in his 
dull, slow tones. “ As I am leaving the district at once 
it will be convenient to have them. Perhaps I had better 
give you this.’’ 

And, still seated there, he handed up the piece of paper 
on which he had been writing. M. Chassin, advancing, 
took it, and read, in a nerveless handwriting, these words 
addressed to himself : 

” You wanted me to go, and I am going — 'probably to join 
M. de Bourmont in Maine, if he will have me. He is the 
furthest away. I have tried to go further still, which would 

no doubt have pleased you better, but ’’ some words were 

scratched out here. “ Since I am fulfilling your wishes, 
perhaps you will do me the service to report my decision in 
the proper quarter, and later despatch my personal effects to 
me, for I shall not enter the Clos-aux-Grives again.” 

The Ahh6, dumbfounded, looked at the writer. Some- 
thing abnormal had happened ; what was it ? And 
Gaston ? 

“You mean this ? “ he stammered. 

“ Certainly,” responded M. de Brencourt, without 
moving a muscle of that expressionless face. “ I have tried 
to shoot the Due de Trelan ” — the priest gave an exclama- 


THE CENTRE OF THE LABYRINTH 309 

tion — ** and failed ... he does not know it — you can 
teU him if you like . . . and I have tried to shoot myself 
and failed. I do not wish to hve, but if I cannot kill 
myself, what other choice is there for the moment ? *’ He 
brushed some bits of dead leaf off his knees, put his pistol 
back into his belt, and rising, held out his hand for his 
sword. ** Did I leave it in the road ? he enquired, in the 
same emotionless way. “ Thank you. I will try to have 
you informed. Monsieur I’Abb^, if I am killed when the 
campaign opens, as I trust I shall be ; I expect you would 
like to know. But you need not fear that I shall ever 
seek to see either of them again.” 

He slipped his sword carefully back into the scabbard, 
made the petrified priest a sort of salute, and went quietly 
past him to the gap in the hedge. where his horse was tied. 

And M. Chassin, who had come out prepared to fight 
dragons, turned and stared after him dumbly, knowing not 
whether to give thanks or no. For this time M. de Bren- 
court had frightened him. But, just as the Comte got 
into the saddle, he felt a sudden violent impulse to say 
something that would pierce that terrifying calm. He 
could not let him go like that. Calling to him, he hurried 
to the gap and came out into the road beside him and his 
horse. The Comte looked down at him with his mask of a 
face. 

** Monsieur le Comte,” said the httle priest earnestly, 
** I have a feefing that some day, in spite of everything, 
you will be given an opportunity of serving that lady 
you have loved and wronged . . . May God forgive you 
and go with you ! ” 

” Thank you ; you are most kind,” said the mask 
pohtely, and the roan horse moved forward : 

And his whilom adversary, so unexpectedly routed, 
stood in the road thinking, ” It is not in Maine, but in a 
madhouse that he will find himself before he is much older I 
God pity him 1 . . . But where can Gaston be — and she ? ” 


Could Pierre Chassin but have seen them they were 
sitting under the pine-stems, unconscious of the lurking 
death so recently withdrawn — sitting there very much as 
they had walked thither, his left arm about her, her head 


310 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


on his breast ; only now she held, with her own two hands, 
that one hand of his fast against her, as if she feared it would 
slip away again. Here was grass, a little distance from the 
pines, and Zephyr cropped it, and for a long while the 
brisk, tearing noise of his browsing, the jingle of his bridle, 
and the sough of the wind above them was all that they 
could hear . . . since the hour was too solemn, too wonder- 
ful, for further speech. 

For they both knew now, if not all, at least the most 
vital facts about each other. Now, for Valentine, the seven 
years' silence was explained — and could scarcely have had 
a more honourable justification. Now the idea that Gaston 
had not cared whether she were dead or alive seemed 
blasphemy. How false, too, had been all those past con- 
ceptions of what their meeting would be like, if ever they 
met again ! Nothing remained now of old wrongs, however 
deep, nothing of old unhappinesses, however real, nothing 
of old mistakes. All these were not, before the miracle of 
his personal presence, the marvel of being in his arms. It 
was as if hoar frost should change, under a stronger sun 
than winter's, into the spring’s diamonds of unimaginable 
joy. 

Here, as she rested on his heart, came on her, after the 
wonder, the peace of Paradise. For this the watchers 
seemed to have been planted ; to this goal under the pine- 
trees they ran up. Take her heart's desire from her I why, 
they had given it ! She would never know how nearly 
it had been snatched away as soon as given. . . . 

As for the man against whose breast she leant, nothing 
but what he held had reality for him . . and even 
she was not yet quite real. The few hours during which 
he had known the nightmare picture in his mind to be 
but a lying canvas were not sufficient to erase its effect. 
The singe of his seven years’ purgatory (worse than hers, 
because it had been purely mental) would not pass lightly 
from him, though it would pass. And this of it burnt hot 
in his mind now, even in these transcendent moments — 
the subtle change in her, the hair tarnished from its glory, 
the lines on the delicate skin, not to be accounted for 
merely by the passing of time, but his doing, his fault ! 
If she had not fallen, there in the A116e, he would scarcely 


THE CENTRE OF THE LABYRINTH 31 1 

have ventured to touch her ; had she not been (as he 
thought) unconscious he would never have kissed her as he 
had. She was too sacred, and too profoundly wronged. 
Yet here she was in his arms, willingly, generously — too 
great in mind to exact what a lesser woman would have 
exacted. And before the depth of the love which had sur- 
vived all that hers had had to survive he was still, in spirit, 
on his knees. 

The sunset had burnt out before they stirred, yet the 
wondeiful hour had to end. Gaston de Trelan got up at 
last and helped his wife to her feet, and then remained gazing 
at her, almost tranced. And she looked at him, standing 
there above that strange battle-array of stones, tall and 
resolute, writh the stains of march and fight still on him, 
with almost everything of the young prince of the Mirabel 
portrait gone. There was no rose in his swordhilt now. 
. . . She drew a long breath, and held out her hand to him, 
and at the touch he woke, and led her down the slope 
towards the black horse, who was to carry her to the 
Clos-aux-Grives. But as they went she remembered 
something. 

** Gaston,*' she said softly, ** I have not come to you 
empty-handed. I, too, can give you something for the 
cause, mon General ! ** Withdrawing her hand from his 
she brought out from its hiding-place and held out to him 
the ruby necklace. Like the gold, it comes from Mirabel ; 
it was given — I daresay you have heard by whom — to the 
concierge of Mirabel.** 

Yet her husband, with the jewels in his hand, did not 
seem pleased. But it is the Duchesse de Tr^an who wiU 
wear it,** he answered, drawing himself up. “ Permit 
me ! ** And, a little awkwardly by reason of his injured 
arm, he contrived to clasp the heirloom round her neck — 
then, catching her to him with a sudden gasp, said vehe- 
mently, Never speak to me again of Mirabel — of your 
being there like that I I cannot bear it I *’ 

“ But, Gaston,** she said, looking up at him, ** when I 
was there I thought of you nearly ^ the time. . . . O my 
dear, when you ride in triumph into Paris with the Royalists 
of Finist^re behind you, we two must make a pilgrimage to 
Mirabel together. If it had not been for Mirabd — ^for the 
treasure . . .*' 


312 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


She did not finish, for she was strained too closely. And, 
stooping his head, her husband kissed her — ^but not as he 
had done on his knees in the heather, hke a worshipper. 
He kissed her like a lover. He was hers at last. 


BOOK IV 

THE YELLOW POPPY 

** But oh, the night ! oh ! bitter-sweet, oh, sweet 
O dark, O moon and stars, O ecstasy 
Of darkness ! O great mystery of love, — 

In which absorbed, loss, anguish, treason’s self 
Enlarges rapture — as a pebble dropt 
In some full winecup over-brims the wine ! " 

Aurora Leigh. 










CHAPTER I 

FULFILMENT 

When Love comes tapping 
On the pane, 

Let not his stmtmons 
Be in vain ; 

— * Enter, Sweet, bring thou 
Sun or rain ! * ” 

sang Marthe de la Ver^e to the harpsichord in her light 
sweet voice. The strains floated through the open salon 
window to Valentine de Tr^an as she sat outside in the 
September sunshine. The music changed : 

** Should the King honour 
My poor door ; 

— ‘ Take, Sire, my sword-arm 
And my store I ' 

So spake my fathers 
Long before.’* 

There was a thrill in the young voice. Yes, thought Mme 
de Trelan, Marthe, if she had been a man, would certainly 
have given her sword-arm and her store to-day ; in fact 
she had given them, in her brother, and — another. 

The chords ceased ; somebody had come into the room, 
and Valentine recognised her hostess’s voice, though she 
could not hear what she said. She resumed the embroidery 
which she had put down to hsten to Mile de la Vergne’s 
singing, but in a moment or two that had slipped to her 
lap, and her thoughts were miles away — back at the All^e 
des Vieilles, at the Clos-aux-Grives. Once more she rode 
into the courtyard of Gaston’s headquarters on Gaston's 
horse, once more she renewed her acquaintance with Roland 
and the Abb4 Chassin ; once more she lay in the little 
room which her husband had given up to her — a soldier's 

315 


316 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


wife, in a soldier's bare environment. And once more she 
was arranging Gaston’s sling for him — ^that sling for which 
she could not learn the reason, since he evaded her questions 
about his wound — and he suddenly caught sight of her 
hands, not quite the white and exquisite hands he remem- 
bered, and she perceived that the slight transformation 
brought home to him almost intolerably the years 
of which he could not bear her to speak. He had 
broken down at the sight, and before she could quiet him 
the palms of those hands, kissed over and over again, were 
wet with his tears. Yes, the lover she had never laiown 
she had now, and in those short five days together at the 
Clos-aux-Grives, interrupted though their companionship 
necessarily was, she had lived the only part of aU her years 
that was worth the Uving. 

Yet, lover though he were, Gaston de Trdan had almost 
instantly to sacrifice his happiness and hers. Even with a 
woman to wait on her he would not have it said that the 
chief of Finistere had his wife with him at his headquarters ; 
would not at any rate permit himself a privilege he would 
not have accorded to any of his officers. He sent Arta- 
mene to ask Mme de la Vergne if she would receive his wife 
for a while — and so the brief idyll came to an end. For 
nearly a fortnight now the Duchesse de Trelan — ^her identity 
was no secret here — ^had been hving, for the first time in 
seven years, with women of her own class, of whom the 
younger was already her slave. And she was happy here, 
where she was made so gladly welcome ; but her thoughts 
had an incomgible habit, as now, of flying away. 

For besides those hours with Gaston there had been 
conversations with the Abb4 Chassin, in which she learnt 
what had at first puzzled her, why her husband had 
changed his name ; and to her Pierre Chassin revealed, 
saying he thought he owed it to her as well as to his foster- 
brother, something of the utter despair and grief of seven 
years ago, and its sequel. He told her indeed, in so many 
words, that the profound change in Gaston was due to her 
— to her memory ; but Valentine had both combated this 
and said that there was no change — ^it was but the fruition 
of what had been there all the time. . . . 

Fruition, yes — fruition of character, fruition of prayer. 
She had prayed and longed, and lo, after years, here was 


FULFILMENT 


3i7 

the answer ! Its symbol lay across her very knees — the 
white silk of which she was making a scarf for the general 
commanding for the King in Finistere. And that general 
was her husband — ^her husband who loved her. 

Could a heart, not very young, break with excess of 
happiness and gratitude ? Spring’s joy was not hke this — 
not so secure, not so blest. Surely this, the joy of autumn, 
was better ! 

Her eyes were fuU of tears as she looked at the golden 
tranquillity before her, the stiU trees whence floated the 
murmur of Marthe’s pigeons, the late flowers, the windless 
blue sky behind the poplars. But they did not fall ; and 
after sitting a moment longer gazing before her she rose, 
and going to the window, looked in. Marthe, alone once 
more, was still seated at the harpsichord. 

“ ^^at a charming Httle song, my child,” said Valentine, 
” and what a fresh voice you have ! ” 

Mile de la Vergne rose and, smiling, made her a curtsey. 
” Chere Madame, it is a Httle song that Artamene unearthed 
somewhere ; we used to sing it when he was here in the 
spring recovering of his wound, M. de Celigny and he and I. 
There is another verse.” 

” Will you not sing it then ? Sing it all again, if you wiU, 
to please me ? ” 

She sat down in the room this time, and once more 
Marthe sang the words, to the light tripping measure of the 
first stanza, and the martial rhythm of the second. For 
the third, the music changed yet again to more solemn 
harmonies ; 

“ Then, when Death hatters 
At my gate. 

One boon, I pray thee. 

Grant me. Fate — 

Instant to open 
Ere he wait I ” 

The chords ended in the minor. 

Looking up, Marthe saw that Mme de Trelan had leant 
her head on one hand. She rose, stood a moment irreso- 
lute, and then darted to her, and flinging herself on her 
knees beside her seized her other hand. 

Madame I Madame 1 I should not have sung the 


3i8 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


last verse 1 You are thinking — forgive me, but I can guess 

— ^that, when the fighting begins 

Valentine put her arm round her. My child, you 
shame me ! You have more courage than I ! Have you 
not given your brother to the same danger, and more than 
your brother ? 

Marthe hid her face on the elder woman's shoulder, and 
thus, the dark head and the golden-grey together, they were 
when the door at the end of the great salon opened. Mile 
de la Vergne drew away at the sound, and both ladies 
looked up. On the threshold stood the tall figure of the 
Due de Troian, with two aides-de-camp behind him ; and 
the aides-de-camp were Roland and Artamene. 

A moment the three invaders stood there, smiling, all 
three of them ; then the sun-barred parquet rang under 
a spurred tread as Gaston came forward to kiss his wife's 
hand, and afterwards her cheek. His arm was no longer in a 
sling ; he was wearing the Cross of Maria Theresa. As he 
hfted Marthe’s fingers to his lips she thought — though she 
had never been to a court which had ceased to exist by the 
time she was of an age to be presented — " One sees, just 
by his manner of doing this, what a great gentleman he is. 
And I wonder if, in all those brilliant ceremonies at Ver- 
sailles, in the days when he was first gentleman of the 
bedchamber to the King, whether Mme de Trelan ever saw 
him to such advantage as here in our drawing-room, in 
that plain, dark uniform, with his sword and that air of 
purpose.” 

And the young girl's reflection was near enough to Valen- 
tine's inmost thought as, chnging to her husband's arm, 
she went with him through the long window into the sun- 
shine outside, which was so filled with her thoughts of him. 
Out there, his arms round her, her hands on his breast, her 
eyes closed, she took and gave on the lips a kiss at once 
grave and passionate, a kiss like the first kiss of lovers — 
a salute which had no special affinity with courts. 

” O Gaston, how I have dreamed of this ! ” 

” Not more, my heart of hearts, than I ! But I could 
not well have come, had I not been leaving my headquarters 
for a few days in any case.” 

” To fight ? Not yet, surely ? ” 

** No — ^to talk I ” said he with a little rueful look. ” But 


FULFILMENT 


319 

it will end in fighting, I trust. I am bound for the chateau 
of La Jonchere, near Pouanc^ — just over the border in 
Anjou — where all the chiefs are to meet on the fifteenth, 
to take a final decision." 

" And you think it will be war ? " 

" I hope so. Circumstances have never been so favour- 
able. But you are standing all this while ; let us go and 
sit down in the arbour." 

They were seated under the linden arch, as yet untouched 
by autumn, when she said, " A rumour came yesterday, 
Gaston, that Vendee had already risen. But we are so 
out-of-the-way here ; is it true ? " 

Her husband's face darkened. " Valentine, it is true. 
Risen, and risen unsuccessfully, alas. Forestier — you may 
remember hearing of him in the grande guerre — came back 
from Spain to lead the rising. He was defeated and, it is 
feared, mortally wounded, at Civi^re, on the thirtieth of 
August." 

Valentine gave a little shiver. Defeat . . . wounds 
.... " Gaston, why was it ? Surely in Vend^ if any- 
where " 

" My darling, Vendee is more a name than a power 
now. That heroic earth is a desert ; half her grown men 
have perished. Three years have not nearly sufficed to 

raise her from ruins. And yet " He stopped, and 

dropped his voice a little. " Yet one thing might have 
done it. One thing might even have raised the bones 
of the slain to life and made soldiers of them — the coming 
of a Prince. It is the old cry — Charette's cry, the cry of 
Quiberon." 

She detected bitterness in his tone. " Does so much, 
then, depend for us now, in Brittany, on the Comte d’ Ar- 
tois' coming in person ? " 

The Due bent his head. " It is hard to say how much." 

" Perhaps I should not ask this, Gaston," she suggested, 
uneasy, " but does he mean to come ? " 

" He says so," replied M. de Troian gravely. " I have 
no doubt he means it. It is that nest of intriguers round 
him who can never be made to see the necessity. They 
put it on the British Government." 

Valentine was silent, thinking of the irresponsible Prince 
Charming whom they had both known personally in the 


320 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


vanished days of Versailles ; then she sighed, and changed 
the topic. But after a little her husband said that it was 
his duty to pay his respects to Mme de la Vergne, whom 
he had not yet seen. And as he rose, reluctantly, he said. 

Could we not ride together somewhere this afternoon, 
Valentine — alone ? " 

It was what she had been hoping for. '* To the sea, 
then ? ” she suggested. ** I have not been there yet, 
though you can see it from the upper windows, and hear it 
too, when there is wind. Let us go there together.” 

“ Soit ! ” said he, and went off in search of the lady of 
the house. 

In the salon, meanwhile, Marthe entertained the aides- 
de-camp. 

” No, you must kiss my left hand to-day. Monsieur de 
Celigny,” she said, laughing, and put her right behind her 
back. ” I keep the other exclusively now for our 
General.” 

She had a flame-coloured ribbon in her hair, and her 
eyes danced as always. Yes, she was worth all that 
Mirabel unpleasantness ! But Roland had already seen 
her since his return. 

” Mademoiselle,” he said with some audacity, ” if I am 
to follow M. le Due's example in salutation to Mme de 
Troian, after the hand comes . . . the cheek. But there, 
too, I would be content with the left ! ” 

” That also,” said Marthe with dignity, ” is reserved for 
someone else ! ” And she provokingly held it up to her 
brother, who kissed her on both. 

” Did I hear you singing Sur le Seuil just now, ma 
petite ? ” he enquired. ” That was why you never heard 
us riding up. You were making such a to-do among those 
low notes, for Death battering on the gate, that he really 
might have been battering for all you heard.” 

But presently, with a httle wise smile, Artamene drifted 
out of the salon. He went into the garden and climbed 
up into an apple tree which he knew of, where he could lie 
at his ease in a fork and try some of the small green apples. 
” Maman and I,” he thought, ” are de trop in this estab- 
lishment. M. le Marquis — his pardon, M. le Due — and his 
resuscitated spouse (who is worthy of him) in the arbour, 
Roland and Marthe in the salon . . . Je me fais hermite.” 


FULFILMENT 


321 


But his departure had not greatly facilitated matters, 
for presently Mme de la Vergne came in and carried off 
Marthe on some business concerned with the nourishment 
of the gentlemen who had descended on her, and a moment 
or two later, when Roland stood irresolute and alone by the 
window, he perceived his leader coming in search of his 
hostess. 

“ Go and talk to Mme de Tr^an, my boy,** said the Due. 

She is in the arbour. I imagine you stiU have memories 
of Mirabel to discuss.’* 

So Roland went to the arbour, where Valentine was, 
and having at her request fetched her embroidery, sat 
himself down precariously at her feet on an overturned 
wateringpot. 

** Madame, I have a grievance against M. le Due,** he 
began. ** I must lay it before you, for you are the only 
person who can do anything for me in the matter.** 

Valentine looked up. “ What is it, my child ? ** 

My locket ! ** said Roland. ** The locket you gave 
me. He has never returned it since that night ! ** 

** Have you ever asked him ? ** 

Roland shook his head, and his eyes said plainly who he 
proposed should perform that office. Valentine met 
them — and her needle slipped. The memory of another 
garden came back to her. He was like Gaston in just that 
light, when he wore just that expression. . . . 

Blood ! ** cried the young man. Madame, you are 

quite pale ! If you would allow me ** And out came 

his handkerchief. 

She shook her head, and twisted her own round the 
scratch, which had already flecked the silk of the scarf. 
Suppose her first impression had been correct after all ? 
Well, it was part of the pain of the past, stretching onwards, 
which she must face. And did it hurt so much in this 
wonderful present ? But her look was grave when she said 
lightly, Is there not some other person’s locket you would 
prefer to the concierge’s, Roland ? '* 

He flushed a little. “ Even if she would have me, if 
Mme de la Vergne and her brother — and my grandfather — 
would give their consents, I am more or less penniless, 
Madame. My estates were sequestrated when my father 
died two years ago.” 

X 


322 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


His father ! Her heart leapt up again. And yet . . . 
Was it possible that she wished he were Gaston's son ? 

Sequestrated by the Government, I suppose ? You 
never told me that. Where are they, Roland — ^in Brittany 
also ? " 

“ No, Madame ; right down in the south, near Avignon." 

Quite abruptly the Duchesse de Trdlan stood up, drop- 
ping the scarf ; and the youth, trying to follow her example 
with the alacrity which politeness demanded, all but rolled 
off the wateringcan. And Valentine apologised. *' I sud- 
denly felt it too hot here. I will go under the trees, I 
think." 

Near Avignon ! So was Saint-Chamans. She really felt 
faint, and yet it was not exactly with distaste. But she 
must know. And since nothing, not even that, had power 
to come between them now she would ask Gaston himself 
at the first opportunity. She did not even feel that she 
must have time to reflect on this. 

But perhaps Gaston meant to tell her of his own free 
will ... 

Then she saw him and Marthe coming that way through 
the sunshine, under the apple trees, and she went towards 
him, followed by Roland. And in his hermitage the 
Chevaher de la Vergne, making a wry face over a sour 
apple, roused himself to peer down at the sound of voices. 

" Everything that there is of a family party ! " he 
observed softly. And with that, judjging it time to dis- 
cover himself, he dropped down from his tree and joined the 
quartet. 

" Oh, there you are, young gentleman," remarked M. de 
Trelan. " Mademoiselle and I have been looking for you. 
How far did you say it was to the sea. Mademoiselle ? " 

" About five miles. Monsieur le Due." 

" Then you shall lend me your horse after dejeuner, Arta- 
mene, and Mme de Trelan shall ride Zephyr. He prefers 
to carry a lady, does he not. Mademoiselle ? " 

" I could not vouch for that. Monsieur le Due. He has 
been more honoured since he ceased to do so." 

" You perhaps have not had time to realise, Valentine," 
said Gaston, addressing his wife with a smile creeping round 
his mouth, " that, as in Eastern countries — and not only 
there, I fancy — ^where an accused, fearing an adverse 


FULFILMENT 


323 


judgment, is prompt to send a substantial present to the 
judge beforehand, so Zephyr (himself of Eastern origin) 
came to me as a . . . bribe . . . and my hands, I fear, 
are somewhat stained by corruption/* 

** How is that ? ** asked the Duchesse, glancing from her 
husband to the laughing girl. 

** But my lips, by the same token, are sealed,** finished 
M. de Trelan. 

** Mesdames, Messieurs, le dejeuner est servi,** announced 
the recently promoted S^raphin, approaching with the 
gait of a rustic and the livery of a major-domo. 


CHAPTER II 

THE YELLOW POPPY 

So Gaston and Valentine rode alone to the sea. 

They went at first through deep lanes, scarcely wide 
enough to ride abreast, where they lost sight of their goal, 
then, mounting a rise of sandy turf, came on it spread 
gloriously before them. A fresh breeze was blowing off 
the land, and the water was of a hundred vivid, changing 
hues — the clearest green, purple that was almost rose, and 
blue that was more than the blue of heaven. It was 
flecked with myriad little tips of foam that looked hke sea- 
birds, for ever vanishing and reappearing, and the offshore 
wind ran over it in sudden violent caresses. Far out, it 
was the colour of a distant wood of hyacinths. 

They checked their horses. Valentine drew a long 
breath before the pulsating wonder of it, the freedom and 
the joy. She stretched out her hand in silence to her 
husband, and he took it as simply ; so they sat on their 
horses hand in hand like two childjen at their first sight of 
the ocean. 

Then he suggested their going down to the shore, and they 
went down among the shelving dunes, their horses' hoofs 
sinking deep in the loose blown sand. At the verge Were 
the stem and ribs of an abandoned boat, conveniently 
embedded there, to which they could tether their horses, 
and Gaston, dismounting, did so and held out his arms to 
her. But ^phyr whinnied after them ; sand and rotting 
timbers pleased him not. 

Down here, on the shore itself, the sandhills gave some 
shelter, and they could walk in comfort, especially when 
they went nearer to the water where the sand was firm 
and ribbed. Despite the offshore wind, the curling waves 
shook off from their edges a breeze of their own, the 
essence of the sea. Clinging to her husband’s arm, Valen- 

324 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


325 

tine leant her head against his shoulder and half closed her 
eyes. 

“ Here/* he said softly, looking down at her, ** here 
one forgets wars and anxieties, the past and the future — 
everything but the present. We were right to come.** 

The breeze of the sea*s own seemed to freshen. Down 
here one could not see in the same way as from the verge 
above the whole extent of that moving field of rapture, 
the rainbow thoughts that ran over its surface, but one 
was nearer to its incommunicable magic. 

You will be cold, my darling. Let us walk along by 
the waves.** 

The little seas, tumbling in foam at their feet, bending in 
mock homage before them, racing slily to entrap them, 
laughed their undying laugh whose meaning the heart of 
man is not deep enough to seize. Starfish, fluted shells, 
trails of seaweed, all their careless treasures were displayed 
there. . . . They would laugh with just the same fresh joy 
to-morrow . . . when Gaston would be here no longer . . . 
O, terrible, that eternal youth and indifference I 

** Gaston,** she said, gripping his arm more closely, “ you 
are not going alone to La Jonch^e, surely ? You spoke of 
sending the young men back.** 

“ No, my heart,** said he, putting his hand over hers. 
** I am not going alone. M. du M^nars and another officer 
will meet me to-morrow on the road, with an escort as well. 
When we meet I shall send my aides-de-camp back to the 
Clos-aux-Grives. That was all I meant.** 

A few paces more, and he added, Unless I take one of 
them with me to La Jonchere in order to use him as a 
messenger to you. Which of them, in that case, would 
you rather have as Mercury ? ** 

Why did he ask her that ? She forgot the sea and 
glanced at him, but he was looking at the waves. 

She answered as she would have answered in any case. 
I would rather have Roland. He is a charming boy 
... I was already fond of him at Mirabel.** If Gaston 
meant to tell her without being asked, which was her great 
hope, she would make it as easy as possible for him. She 
paused, and went on lightly, " Mme de la Vergne, how- 
ever, might prefer her own son. As for Marthe . . • weU, 
I know Roland's mind at least on that matter," 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


326 

Her husband stopped in his walk. ** Valentine,” he 
said, turning his head towards her, ” I have something to 
tell you about Roland.” 

She stopped too, and loosed his arm. For a moment 
her heart seemed to pause also. He had paled a little, 
his voice was very grave and not free from difficulty, but 
he did not try to escape her gaze. On the contrary he 
looked straight at her. 

(” I have something to tell you about Roland ! ” echoed the 
waves, laughing.) 

And then Valentine de Trelan knew that she wanted 
to spare him the exphcit avowal, because she saw. how much 
it would cost him to utter to her face what was, by implica- 
tion, an insult to her — though an insult twenty years old. 

” I guessed it, Gaston,” she said, very quietly. ” But 
I hoped that you would tell me. It is right that I should 
know . . . but I want to learn nothing further ... I 
only wished it not to lie, unspoken, between us. . . . Now 
we need never speak of it again, save as it affects the boy 
himself.” 

” I hate that you should know it,” he said with emotion. 
” And yet I hated even more to keep you in ignorance. 
I thought, too, that you might guess, and that was worse 
. . . Valentine, Valentine, I cannot wish it undone, because 
I love him . . . but if only I need not have given you this 
pain ! ” 

Yet he was suffering more than she ; she knew that. 
Once again, as in the arbour this morning, it came to her 
as strange that she should feel it so httle. And, only 
eager for the moment to aUay the deep distress in his eyes 
and voice, she put her hands on his arm. ” It does not 
pain me now, Gaston. No, no, believe me ! I am speaking 
the truth ! It is so long ago, in that other life which we 
have forgotten. Why remember it now, in this ? ” 

He caught her hands and raised them to his lips. 
” Generous ! generous ! ” he murmured. ” Why must I 
choose to-day to wound you so ? ” 

“ But you have chosen the right day, the right place ! ” 
she cried. The vanishing of the dread that he might not 
tell her had almost irradiated her. ” The . . . the past — 
see, it can be forgotten, as a pebble would be, cast into 
those great waters . . . and that there is no pain now — 


THE YELLOW POPPY 327 

I love him, too. Will not that convince you, my 
husband ? 

Perhaps it did. He bowed his forehead silently upon her 
hands as he held them. 

“ But as for guessing,” she went on, ** — O Gaston, my 
very dear, it is over now — as for guessing, the first moment 
that I saw him, lying in the garden at Mirabel, I was 
startled ... but I thought it was imagination. And I 
grew so fond of him in those few days, innocent and gallant 
as he was. Yet I put the idea away at once because . . . 
because he had not your eyes . . . and now, after aU . . 
She stopped ; speech was suddenly faihng her. “ O Gaston,” 
she said in a breaking whisper, “ Gaston, if only he had mine ! ” 

And pulling her hands away she put them before her 
own face, weeping. 

” My darling, my darling ! ” he cried, and strained her 
in his arms, saying no more than that, beyond speech 
indeed himself, pierced once more by the memory of his 
own words at their parting, which came back even now to 
stab him. But as, with her face covered, she wept upon 
his heart, he knew that it was not of his unworthy reproach 
that she was thinking. Hers was a deeper and more 
mysterious pain. It seemed so to throb through her as 
he held her, there on the sandy shore, that the very waves 
were full of it ; and he could do nothing save hold her 
more tenderly still, and kiss the yet beautiful hair. 

After a httle she ceased to sob, and dried her eyes. 

Only one thing more,” she said unsteadily. Does 
Roland know ? ” 

” I gave my word to his grandfather that I would not 
tell him before he was one-and-twenty. I have tried to 
keep it in the spirit as weU as in the letter. I do not think 
he guesses. What others may guess I do not know.” 

“It is plain,” said Valentine, “ that he worships you. 
But they all do that, those young men — and with reason.” 

They were still standing at the edge of the waves when 
she put the seal on her forgiveness. For she said, looking 
at him with her clear eyes, “ Gaston, when I see him and 
speak with him I am glad that he is your son ! ” 

Later on they sat at the base of the sandhills, and 
spoke of many things — even of M. de Brencourt, so sore a 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


328 

subject to her husband that, till now, Valentine had scarcely 
dared to mention the Comte’s name. Particularly had this 
been the case since he had learnt, at the Clos-aux-Grives, 
of the lie told at Mirabel about his own death. Most of 
the tale of treachery Valentine had gleaned, not from 
Gaston at all, but from the Abbe Chassin. Yet it seemed 
to her a better thing that Gaston should say openly now, 
as with cold i>assion he did, He took my hand after I had 
gone out with him, and yet went on with the worst treason of 
all ! It is impossible for a man to forgive an act so absolutely 
base ! ” than that he should nurse his just resentment in 
secret and never speak of it. But though through the 
Comte de Brencourt she had so nearly lost him before ever 
he was found, though now, realising it afresh, she caught 
to her breast the arm which the false comrade Had pierced, 
this day and place seemed to spread healing hands even 
over that madness and treachery. And when she looked 
at him, holding him thus, the frown went from Gaston’s 
brow, and adding, ** At least, then, I will try to forget,” 
he gave her a long kiss. 

But soon, too soon, it was time to return. The wind 
was dropping ; the gulls which had been soaring high 
on its strength were now beginning to ride on the little 
waves, or, to stalk along by the edge of the tide. The brief 
hour was over, the hour that seemed more particularly set 
between the old life and the new, in this place of wild air 
and rapture, where the years of pain and surmise were for- 
gotten, and the hazard of the sword and what the future 
might bring yet unweighed. It was time to go. 

And as, v^ close together, the two went slowly along 
the dry sand at the bottom of the dunes, they saw at a 
little distance a small patch of colour there — a pool of faint 
green, touched with blots of pale, swaying yellow that 
caught and held the sunUght. They came to it. 

” Flowers even here ! ” exclaimed Valentine. 

It was the bride of the waves, the beautiful yellow sea- 
pqppy, that blossoms so late, and is so soon scattered. 
Tney both stood and looked down at it, not without wonder, 
as those who come on a jewel in a dusty place — at the 
^ong, abundant, deeply-cut foHage, silvery green in the 
sunset, fashioned to defy wind and wave, that had yet 
given birth to such an ethereal marvel of a flower, whose 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


329 


every petal was a miracle of delicacy, a flower so frail that 
a breath could put out its cup of light. Already the plant 
at their feet bore the tokens of the passing of many of its 
blossoms, in the long curving horns, treasures of next year’s 
promise, which had succeeded the fallen petals. 

Valentine, who had never seen the horned poppy before, 
knelt down by it. “ How wonderful to bloom so late, and 
in so inclement a place ! ” she said. “ Look how the wind 
beats on these flowers ! ” 

** And yet they do not fall,” said her husband. ” You 
shall give me one, my dearest heart, for this our second 
betrothal.” 

So she plucked a poppy and held it up to him. It seemed 
almost to have light in itself, like a fragile golden lamp half 
enclosed between the open, guarding hands of its leavesf 
He took it, and bending, kissed the hand that gave it him. 
Next moment, either because it was caught by a puff of 
wind, or because its brief life was already over, he held 
nothing in his hand but the stem with its sturdy foliage, 
and the pistil set within its fringe of orange-yellow stamens. 
The four lovely shining petals were blown away. One only 
rested over his heart, caught there on the cross of white and 
gold. 

Valentine turned pale. What had suggested to her 
that this wonder was like their love, so late in blossoming, 
so little favoured in its surroundings, so exquisite . . . and, 
perhaps, so short-lived ? 

” Wait, and I will give you another,” she said with a 
rather forced gaiety. ” I will choose a younger flower 
this time.” 

” No, no,” cried Gaston de Troian. ” I want no 
other.” And, gently taking off the bright, clinging thing 
from his breast and closing it in his hand, he stooped 
and recovered the other three — two from the sand, the 
fourth from Valentine’s habit, and lifted them to his lips. 
At the base of each pale golden |>etal was the faintest stain. 
Then he put them carefully, almost reverently away in a 
little leather case, and replaced it inside his uniform. 

“You look quite white, my darling ! ” he exclaimed, 
catching sight of her face as she rose. ” What is the 
matter ? ” 

But she would not tell him ; she only came for the last 


330 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


time in that place into the strong circle of his arms. Her 
cheek rested where the poppy petS had lain, on the guerdon 
of valour ; against her side she felt the hilt of his sword — 
a sweet discomfort. 

** O Gaston, my heart, my only love ! It was worth those 
years — this hour ! Only, with so much happiness upon 
me, I think I would rather die to-day.” 

** Are you afraid ? ” he asked in a low voice, holding her 
as if he meant to hold her for ever. “ Are you afraid, my 
saint, my strong saint ? I am not. This place that we 
have come to, after such bitter wanderings, shall hold us 
always now — be sure of it — in life or death ! ” 

And though the yeUow poppy shone and shivered at 
their feet — the sea-poppy that flowers so late and is so 
soon scattered — ^she knew that it was true. 


CHAPTER III 

THE COST OF ANSWERED PRAYER 

So it was Roland, now openly betrothed to Marthe, who 
came to La Vergne a week later, bringing Gaston's letter 
announcing that the die was cast, and it was Roland who 
told Valentine more fully of the great gathering of Royalist 
chiefs at La Jonchere, surrounded by almost inaccessible 
forest, and guarded by more than a thousand peasants. 
The young man, though not himself admitted to the con- 
ferences, had seen some of the leaders, Chatillon and 
Bourmont and La Prevalaye and Sol de GrisoUes, and 
d’Autichamp the Vendean, and Georges Cadoudal whom 
he had missed at Hennebont. Their three days of deUbera- 
tion had resulted in a decision for a general levy of arms 
in the West. The date fixed was the fifteenth of October. 
“Not very long to wait, Madame ! ” said Hermes en- 
thusiastically. 

No, for Gaston’s wife the time was all too short tiU the 
clash of arms, — but all too long till his promised visit. 
For in his letter he had said that before the hour of action 
broke he should, please God, come and show her all that 
was in his heart for her. And Valentine looked at the words 
every day, as September, full of rumours, ripened towards 
October. 

In the first week in October came the news that fighting 
had already begun in Northern Brittany, and with success, 
for the Chevalier de la Nougarede, “ Achille le brun,” had 
hardly got back from La Jonchere than he raised the 
standard, and beat, at Argentre, the Republican general 
Schildt who had come out of Rennes to attack him. And 
even before that d’Andigne, the Comte de ChStillon's very 
competent chief of staff, had inflicted a severe little defeat 
at Noyant on eight hundred of the old, tried soldiers who 
had formed part of the garrison of Milan. 

On the other hand there was bad news from Holland, 

331 


332 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


where Prune had defeated the allied Anglo-Russian forces 
of the Texel expedition on September 19 ; and worse from 
Switzerland, where, six days later, Massena inflicted such 
a severe defeat on Korsakoff at Zurich that Suwaroff, com- 
ing from Italy to join his countryman, had difficulty in 
saving his own army. Valentine was uneasy at these 
tidings of the Republic’s triumph on a large scale, but 
neither she nor the other two women fully comprehended 
how they isolated the Royalists of the West. And though 
she wondered why the forty-five thousand English and 
Russians could not have been landed directly on the soil 
of France, in Brittany or Vend^, instead of in Holland, 
she could not foresee that a little later Prune’s whole army, 
set free by the capitulation of Alkmaar, would be employed 
against the Chouans. She worked at the last golden 
fleur-de-lys on Gaston’s scarf, and helped Mme de la Vergne 
and Marthe in their household employments and in the 
orchard, for there were fewer men than ever, Seraphin 
and two of the farm boys having gone to join the Lilies. 

And once or twice, in that St. Luke’s summer come before 
its time, she foimd her steps turning towards the sea. 
She went there twice with Marthe. She would have hked 
to go there again with Gaston, but she knew that desire 
unlikely of fulfilment. And the sea was so changed — calm 
with an unearthly calm, shining with a pure, still radiance, 
and warded by great slow-moving fleets of cloud galleons 
like mother-of-pearl, that were reflected, far-gleaming, in 
the water over which they sailed. Yes, this October sea 
was as far removed from a tranquil blue sea of summer 
as from that beautiful September sea, where there had 
been wind and rainbow shadows — ^and the yellow poppy, 
which bloomed no longer. There shone instead the 
golden leaves of the poplars at La Vergne, incredibly yellow 
against the distant sea, on the one or two days that the 
sea had colour. But mostly it was of that indescribable 
hue of nacre. 

And when would Gaston come ? 

When he did come Valentine would have given every- 
thing in the world that he had not. 

Old Colette, the cook, who had gone to the tiny village 
for her marketing, came back on one of these still mornings 
rather flustered, reporting that there were soldiers there. It 


THE COST OF ANSWERED PRAYER 333 

was a most startling as well as a most unpleasant novelty. 
In none of the previous risings had Blues ever been seen 
at La Vergne. The ancient woman at first reported the 
invaders to be about a hundred ; later she came down to a 
dozen. 

But half that number could terrorise the place. And 
why were they there ? The three ladies at the chateau 
had nothing to hide — as yet, nothing, for themselves, to 
fear ; nevertheless they were in a fever. If word could 
only be sent to the Marquis de Kersaint in case he were 
on his road ! But word could not be sent. Valentine com- 
forted herself and them by the assurance that he would not 
come without an escort, and would therefore have nothing 
to fear from a handful of Blues. He would never come 
alone. 

But that was precisely what her husband did, riding in 
quietly to the stable-yard at dusk of that October day, 
and, finding no one there, putting up his horse with his 
own hands. And Marthe, hearing unwonted sounds, fan 
out from the kitchen and found him in the act, with Zephyr 
very much at home, and pulling down hay from his old rack. 

“ O, Monsieur le Due ! Monsieur le Due ! she cried. 

** Mademoiselle," said Gaston, laughing, " I do indeed 
apologise for making free of your provender without per- 
mission. May I plead that it is for your own horse ? " 

She darted at him while Zephyr whinnied for recognition. 
" Why did you choose to-day to come. Monsieur de Troian ? 
We have been so praying that you would not. Do not say 
that you are alone, unescorted ! For . . . did you not 
know it ? . . . there are soldiers in the village ! " 

There was a moment’s silence. " No, I did not know it," 
said the Due quietly. " Had I known, I should not have 
come alone. But I did not enter the village, so they 
will not have seen me." He pause I, passing his hand 
once or twice over Zephyr’s neck, and said in a voice which, 
despite himself, revealed how intensely he disliked the 
idea, " I do not wish to involve you in unpleasantness. 
Perhaps the simplest thing would be to ride away again at 
once." 

Marthe shook her head. Now that he was here, risk or 
no risk, he must see his wife. Perhaps indeed there was 
greater risk in going back. 


334 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


“ You must stay/* she said. ** And we have taken cer- 
tain precautions. Come to the house, Monsieur le Due, 
and I will show you, even before you see Mme de Trelan.’* 

** And Zephyr — ^if they should search ? He becomes 
your horse once more, I suppose ? But my saddle. 
Mademoiselle, what of that ? Unless you can persuade 
them that you always use a man's ! " 

" Here is mine quite near," she said, pointing to it, " and 
it fits him, of course. Yours — it has holsters, too ! — ^we 
must hide in the loft." They hid it, and in a few minutes 
she was showing M. de Trelan the old hiding-place in the 
dining-room. "It is very ingenious, the way one gets 
there," she added. 

It was very ingenious. Against the painted panels 
stood a massive sideboard whicn four men could scarcely 
have stirred from its place. But when Marthe touched a 
spring a section of it turned upon itself and gave access 
to a tiny room behind, whose door formed part of the 
panelling. 

" A very charming httle retreat," observed the Due, 
smiling. " But I hope that you do not expect me to 
deprive myself of your society, Mademoiselle, by spending 
all my time in there ? " 

" We should be the last to wish to banish you. Monsieur. 
But there it is ready, if you — ^get tired of us ! Yet I think 
you have run all the risk you are hkely to run . , . unless 
they know” 

" That, I think, is impossible," said Gaston. And then 
Valentine, attracted by voices, entered. Marthe shpped 
out with the speed of a swallow. 

" O my darhng, my darling, why have you come ? " was 
her first word. 

" Ma foi," returned her husband gaily, as he kissed her, 
" apparently to be put aside, like the bread, in that sort of 
garde-manger there — at least that is the fate Mile Marthe 
designs for me. It is not my intention, however." 

" Gaston, you should not have come ! " she repeated. 

" Chere amie, what a greeting. Shall I go again ? " 

"No, no ! " She clung to his arm. "You did not 
know, of course ! " 

" No," he said more gravely, " I did not know. It would 
not have been right for me to come if I had known." Then 


THE COST OF ANSWERED PRAYER 335 

he looked at her and said with deliberation, ** I am only 
thankful that I did not know ! ** 

They had all of them that in the blood which responds 
to the stimulus of danger, and supper, in the room whence 
the hiding-place was so easily accessible, was a cheerful 
meal. During its course news arrived that the soldiers 
had left the village altogether. So they went with light 
hearts into the salon, and there the leader of Finistere told 
the three ladies what in a few days they would divine for 
themselves, the outline of the main plan of campaign, and 
why . what seemed the hazardous plan of attacking large 
towns instead of small was the better. For in the small 
towns, violently anti-royalist as they were, the whole 
population was armed, and the walls and pahsades loopholed, 
so that the losses involved in the capture of such positions, 
without artillery, would be too heavy to be worth incurring. 
On the other hand the large towns were often insufficiently 
garrisoned for their size, opinion therein was more moderate, 
sometimes secretly favourable, and even an unsuccessful 
attack would benefit the Royalists, since it would draw off 
the Republican troops from the country districts. 

** It is a good thing that we are going to begin fighting 
in earnest,*' he concluded, for soon I shall not be able to 
hold in my followers. Do you know what Lucien and 
Roland did the other day for a wager — strolled, in full 
uniform, through the streets of Lanvennec in broad day- 
light ! The Republicans were just changing guard, and 
were, I fancy, too much petrified by their audacity to take 
in what was happening. Anyhow my young sparks had 
completed their promenade before the chase began. It was 
I who had them arrested." 

He had barely finished the story when steps came flpng 
down the passage, the door was unceremoniously opened, 
and Marthe’s maid, shutting it behind her, stood there 
panting. " Soldiers ! ** she gasped, “ they are in the 
house . . . some in the garden . . . they are coming here 
now.'* Indeed, through the closed door could clearly be 
heard approaching feet and the clank of spurs — feet that 
cut off the possibility of swift retreat to the cachette in the 
dining-room. In another moment their owners would be 
in the salon. 

Valentine, turning quite white, went to her husband's 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


336 

side, and Gaston, who had jumped up, looked quickly 
round the room. ** The window,'' he suggested ; but at 
the same moment came a blow on the shutters outside. 

** No, no ! " exclaimed Marthe, as pale as Mme de Trelan. 
** Behind you — the hangings 1 " And she all but pushed 
him to the wall, parted the hangings of woven Indian 
stuff, and with her little hands drew them hastily over 
him again. Then she ran to the long window, on which 
repeated blows were raining. Mme de la Vergne, nervous 
but collected, went to the door. And V^entine was 
left by the hearth to see that Marthe's work was not 
completed. For under the thin gay riot of branches, birds 
and flowers that concealed him, were only too plainly visible 
Gaston's boots — the hangings did not quite reach the 
floor. It seemed to her that in that second she knew the 
concentrated anguish of a lifetime — for Marthe's quick 
wit had been right ; it was the only possible place in the 
room. Yet she had seized a brocaded cushion from the 
sofa, had cast it down against the hangings on her husband's 
feet as though it had fallen there, and, placing a low chair 
in front of it, had herself sat down as a living screen, all 
before the door actually opened and the Republican officer 
and his men came in. 

If the search had been anything but perfimctory, Gaston 
de Trelan must have been discovered. But the officer, 
it was obvious, had no idea whom the Chateau de la Vergne 
was harbouring, nor indeed, that it was specifically harbour- 
ing anybody, and he was almost apologetic at disturbing 
the ladies. But— orders were orders. Round the salon, 
therefore, he merely took a long glance, and when they had 
searched the rest of the house with about the same par- 
ticularity, the Blues went away, and the inmates of the 
chateau could sleep in perfect security. 

But not Valentine. For all her courage and resource she 
came near breaking down when she was at last alone with 
her husband. 

I feel as if I should never sleep again ! " she said, 
pressing the palms of her hands over her eyes. “I see 
nothing but those men’s faces and the way they looked 
round the room. Gaston, Gaston, I am not fit to be your 
wife ! " 


THE COST OF ANSWERED PRAYER 337 

** Never would I have come/' said he remorsefully, 
holding her in his arms as they stood by the hearth in her 
room, never would I have come had I known it would 
be to put you to such strain I ” 

Gaston, is it true that the Royalists have no artillery ? '' 
Yes," he replied unwillingly. 

" And these Republican victories in Holland and Swit- 
zerland — are they not very unfortunate ? " 

“ They are not fortunate, certainly. But the greater 
the odds, the greater the glory." 

" Gaston, I ... I do not think I can let you go ! " 

To this he said nothing, but very tenderly kissed her 
hair, as he held her. And now she began to see the price 
that every woman pays who stands where she did. 

" You know," she said, after a pause, " I think I must be, 
ordinarily, without imagination. I think of you and 
danger alwa}^, every moment that I breathe, but they never 
seem together, and only to-night, when danger was in the 
room with you and I sat there pretending to sew — thank 
God it was not your scarf that I had — thinking every 
moment that one of them would pick up that cushion and 
you would be dragged out — it was only then that I realised 
what danger is. . . ." 

But all night she realised it, and all night, whether she 
woke, or slept in snatches, she saw the price that she must 
pay, although he was safe for the moment at her side. 
Gaston, too, lay long awake, and they talked ; but he must 
rise and Vide away before sunrise, and, campaigning having 
given him the gift of sleep at will, after a while he slept. 

He could sleep, yes ; for though reluctant to leave her 
he was going to what he desired, to what she — strange 
irony — ^had prayed, years ago, that he might desire — a 
man's work, a man's hazards, a man's endurances. Long 
imanswered, that slow prayer of hers had found ample 
fulfilment now . . . and she was beginning to learn the 
cost of its realisation. His hand held at last the hilt of a 
blade that was worthy of him — but its point was in her 
heart. 

Once in her torment she slipped out of bed and wandered 
distractedly round the dark room. She went, without 
conscious purpose, towards the deep recessed window, and, 
feeling her way to the curtains, met on the window-seat 

Y 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


338 

something long and hard and cold. Her fingers told her 
that it was Gaston’s sword, which he had laid there. 
And, hating it and loving it at once, she knelt down and 
laid her forehead against the scabbard. “ Bring him 
back to me ! bring him back ! ” But what could a sword 
do against a bullet ? 

Vadentine looked out. The night had been dull and 
cloudy, but it was now getting towards dawn. She had 
a desire to see Gaston more clearly, and, leaving the curtain 
half drawn, she went back towards the bed. Then she 
wished she had left the vrindow veiled. In that grey light 
how pale he looked, lying there motionless in the ancient 
bed, whose twisted posts recalled the great candlesticks 
she had set out at Mirabel for the requiem mass that was 
never said. Ah, what horrible presentiments seized one 
in this wan, uncourageous hour ! She had a yearning to 
wake him, to hear him speak ; she even pressed her hand 
over her mouth as she stood there by him lest she should do 
it, but all the time she knew that an impulse such as that 
had no chance against the deep, protective instinct which 
immediately overrode it. He must sleep, because he 
would have need of strength to-day whither he went. 

Cold and heartsick, she crept back at last into bed and 
lay there, still wakeful, in agony. How often in the 
weeks of tension that were coming would she not lie and 
crave for the pain that she had now — the anticipated 
pain of parting. For a little time longer she could listen 
to his quiet breathing. To have done that to-morrow and 
the morrow after would be the whole of bliss, for she 
would have known that he was safe. But to-morrow 
night 

She did fall asleep in the end. A shght sound woke her, 
Gaston, fully dressed, was kneeling by her side. 

O, my heart, is it time already ? ” 

“ It wants five minutes, beloved.” 

In that black night Valentine had determined that, 
if it killed her, she would not fail him at the moment of 
parting. ” I must get up, then, and give you your scarf,” 
she said, raising herself. 

” You must fasten it on for me,” said he. 

” No, Gaston, not over your uniform — and you without 
an escort ! It is too conspicuous ... I wish now that I 


THE COST OF ANSWERED PRAYER 339 

had not worked the ends in gold. No ; hide it in your 
breast, and put it on when you are back ! ** She had 
slipped out of bed, had found the symbol, and was holding 
it close to her. 

** Very well, most dear,** said he, smiling. I wanted 
your fingers to knot it round me, but perhaps you are 
right. It is from your hands that I receive it, which is 
all that matters.** He knelt and took it from her, kissed 
the folded silk, and opening the breast of his uniform, 
put it over his heart. She stooped over him suddenly. 

** I am not worthy of you, my dearest, for last night . . . 
if I could have kept you back, I would. This morning I 
... I desire you to go. But I am weak, Gaston ; only 
promise me that you will think of me as I wish to be in this, 
and not as I . . . as I am ] ** 

Still kneehng, he caught her hands. Have you then 
so little knowledge of what you are to me, Valentine — you, 
my star, my standard with the Lilies, my oriflamme itself ! ** 


CHAPTER IV 

WAR . . . AND TREATIES 

(I) 

And now at last the West was really ablaze, and in a few 
days, as department after department lit up with the care- 
fully prepared flame, the Repubhcans began to suffer more 
serious reverses than they had known since the days of 
the grande guerre, the Vend^ proper, six years before. 
For the Chouannerie which the dying Directory had to face 
was very different from what it had been in the days of 
Hoche and the Convention ; it was no longer a swarm of 
small peasant uprisings led, sometimes, by nameless chiefs 
as uneducated as the men who followed them. The leaders 
of this war were gentlemen, returned 6migr^s, with enrolled 
levies at their disposal ; with a system of requisition, a 
network of espionage and intelligence throughout the 
country districts ; with, here and there, white-plumed 
staff officers wearing the cross of St. Louis, with uniforms, 
now and then with fifes and drums, and even, in one or 
two cases, with a little cavalry. 

And their tactics were new and more formidable. No 
longer did they content themselves with overrunning the 
country districts, avoiding the neighbourhood of towns ; 
on the contrary, as M. de Kersaint had told the ladies of 
La Vergne, they were in such force that they threatened 
— and did more than threaten — those centres of Republican- 
ism. 

At the voice of Cadoudal the country between Vannes 
and Auray had risen as one man. Not vainly had he 
boasted in the spring of his careful organisation. And 
while he himself successively took Land^vant between 
Auray and Hennebont, Port Navalo at the outlet of the 
inland sea of the Morbihan, and other places between that 
and the mouth of the Vilaine, his lieutenant Sol de Grisolles 
raised the districts between the mouth of the Vilaine and 

340 


WAR . . . AND TREATIES 


341 


that of the Loire. To him fell La Roche-Bernard on the 
river itself, Poutchllteau and Gu^rande with its mediaeval 
walls and towers, a formidable triangle of possessions above 
St. Nazaire and the Loire mouth. And these w^ere only 
some of the Republican losses in Brittany. 

Maine fought under the young Comte de Bourmont, 
seconded by the veteran Chevalier de Tercier, and Chap- 
pedelaine, and the Chevalier de ChSteauneuf — who was 
“ Achille le blond.” Another of Bourmont 's lieutenants. 
La Fregeoliere, pushed as far as Le Lude and La Fl^he 
on the borders of the Angoumois and Touraine. Anjou 
obeyed the old Comte de Chfitillon, and, after the brilliant 
initial success of his chief of staff, d'Andigne, at Noyant in 
September, the Angevins made rapid incursions into the 
districts of Segre, Cand^ and ChSteauneuf. Ingrandes, 
Varades on the Loire, garrisoned towns, were threatened. 
From the Loire right up to the C6tes-du-Nord the Republi- 
can cantonments and posts were submerged under a flood 
of insurgents. 

But far more resounding than all these widespread suc- 
cesses were the audacious coups de main carried out on 
large towns. St. Brieuc on its bay in the C6tes-du-Nord 
was not, it is true, a large town, but it was garrisoned ; 
yet Mercier, Cadoudal’s young alter ego, and Saint-R6gent 
took and held it for a night while General Casablanca 
barricaded himself in his hotel. The Chouans set free 
three hundred Royalists imprisoned there, and took 
muskets. But, ten days before this, a much more daring 
captm-e had been made — nothing less than the city of Le 
Mans which, at three o’clock on the morning of October 15, 
Bourmont’s forces entered at five points simultaneously. 
He held it for three days before he withdrew. Even more 
than Le Mans, Nantes, that great city, proud of its resist- 
ance to the Vendean army, might have seemed secure. 
But while Grigny, commanding there, went out in the 
wrong direction to encounter the Angevins, ChStillon and 
d'Andignd, under cover of a thick fog, slipped in at four 
o’clock in the morning of October 20 with no more than two 
thousand followers, of whom only half were accustomed to 
arms. 

The taking of Nantes, though the place had to be evac- 
uated before daylight, and though it did not give the 


342 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


captors any material advantage in the way of arms and 
powder, as did the seizure of Le Mans, had, equally with 
that exploit, exactly the effect on public opinion that the 
Royahsts had hoped, creating such a terror in the large 
towns that they could not be left without adequate garrisons, 
and thus immobilising a number of Republican troops, 
and leaving the country districts freer for the operations 
of the Royalists. Before either of these feats, however, 
the example had been set in Finistere — and was not Valen- 
tine proud of it ? — when her husband, with a smaller force . 
than any, seized and held for two days and nights the 
pleasant cathedral city of Quimper, the chef-lieu of the 
department. Yet she could hardly have been prouder 
than ‘ les jeunes,’ who played a most conspicuous part in 
the enterprise. To the Repubhcans of Quimper the 
sudden inroad of a hitherto unknown phenomenon, Chouan 
cavalry — ^not very wonderfully mounted, it is true, nor 
smartly equipped, but making a terrific noise on the cobbled 
streets — ^was little short of apocalyptic. The Chevalier 
de la Vergne, the commander of this small body, observed 
to his two intimates that they had a right to give them- 
selves airs, since the capture of Quimper was undoubtedly 
due in the main to “ Charlemagne’s Horse,” as he had 
christened his corps ; but Roland reminded him that, 
if such were the case, it was really Mirabel which had 
taken the town, for Mirabel had mounted and armed those 
cavaliers, as it had armed the greater part of M. de Kersaint’s 
gars. 

And, after leaving Quimper, before the troops sent in 
haste from the Morbihan could fall upon him, the Marquis 
de Kersaint was up threatening Chateaulin, while M. du 
Menars with ” Charlemagne’s Horse ” marched rapidly 
towards Carhaix. A force was then ordered out of Brest 
in the hopes of catching the Royahsts between two fires, 
but, nobody knew how, M. de Kersaint and his men shpped 
through, and, effecting a junction with his subordinate, 
plunged into the wild, broken country round Huelgoat, 
where the Blues did not dare to follow them. Finally, 
in retiring unsatisfied to Brest, the Republicans were fallen 
upon in the rear by a perfectly unexpected body of Chouans 
from the north, which they had beheved quiet. Their 
leader was one ” Sincere.” And the authorities, com- 


WAR . . . AND TREATIES 


343 


pletely misinformed as they had been about the supposed 
quiescence of Finistere, were at their wits' end to know 
where the flame would next break out in the department. 

But south of the Loire things did not go so well. There 
were no great generals left there ; the majority even of the 
former officers were missing. Forestier, the most popular, 
was still recovering from his terrible wound of August, 
and his ill-success then made a new levy still more difficult. 
Yet d’Autichamp, Suzannet, and Grignon, who divided 
the three Vendean commands, did their best. The Re- 
pubhcans had few forces on the left bank of the Loire, and 
one briUiant success might have raised Vendee from ruins. 
The success did not come. Suzannet attacked Montaigu, 
was beaten off and severely wounded, a misfortune which 
led directly to the dispersal of his men. D’Autichamp, 
who had got together a rather larger force, fell in at Les 
Aubiers with two hundred and fifty Blues whose com- 
mander stationed some of them in the church tower, whence 
they killed and wounded some forty Royalists. It was 
proposed to bum them out, but this would have offended 
the religious scruples of the Vendeans, and they were 
besieged instead. After twenty-four hours without food 
or water they were still holding out. Meanwhile the 
Republican chef de brigade at Bressuire was on the march. 
D’Autichamp went to Nueil to defend the passage of the 
httle river Argenton against him, left the command there 
to a peasant subordinate, and returned to Les Aubiers. He 
had better have stayed at Nueil. The Vendeans, according 
to their incorrigible habit, neglected to put sentries, the 
Blues from Bressuire surprised them, and they were put to 
flight. 

The affair did not cost many men, but it had a most 
unfortunate moral effect. Five thousand Vendeans had 
allowed themselves to be surprised and routed by eight 
hundred Blues. “ Where is Cathelineau ? ” was the 
universal cry. And in fact this miserable affray of Les 
Aubiers decided the fate of the whole campaign in Vendee, 
for after it d’Autichamp could only skirmish, and Grignon, 
in the centre, was never able to get together many men. 
Much, certainly, had hung on the valour of the Blues 
in the church tower and the rehgious scruples of their 
opponents. 


344 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


But the failure of Vendee and the startling successes in 
Brittany aUke paled before a much greater event. On the 
9th of October, the very day that Gaston de Troian had 
ridden away alone from La Vergne at sunrise, General Bona- 
parte, abandoning his army in Egypt, landed at Fr^jus. 
On the i6th, the day after the taking of Le Mans, he was at 
Paris. In a month from the date of his landing, the 
9th of November, the Directory lay in the dust, and he 
was acclaimed First Consul of the temporary Consulate, 
and the saviour of France. Across the path of the Bourbons 
there no longer sprawled a hydra-headed incompetence. 
One man of genius, with a vehement, implacable will stood 
there, armed. 

The road to power had been made easy for him. France 
was only crying out for a deliverer to raise her from the 
state of mud and blood in which she lay. Attempts had 
already been made to find one in Joubert or Moreau. It 
was conceivable that even had a Bourbon appeared he 
might very well have been accepted. But it was too late 
now. 

Yet this moment was the very apogee of the Royalist 
revival in the West. Never had they been better organised, 
better recognised as a military force. What they had taken 
or threatened in three weeks was amazing. In the Morbihan 
they were entirely masters of the countryside ; in Ille-et- 
Vilaine they had strong detachments near Rennes, Fougeres, 
and Vitr 4 ; Bourmont in Maine occupied the bourgs and 
even the little towns on the banks of the Sarthe and the 
Loire ; and distant Finistere had become almost volcanic. 

On account of these very successes, overtures of peace 
had already been made, from the side of the Directory, 
before the great change of Brumaire. With them was 
charged the Republican general-in-chief in the West, the 
Comte de Hedouville, a gentleman with the manners and 
predilections of his caste, and he, in his headquarters at 
Angers, was actually in conference with the chosen go- 
between — a Royalist lady, Mme Turpin de Crisse — on the 
day of the coup d'Hat itself, so that his success was an- 
nounced to a Government already overthrown. For he 
naturally directed his powers of conciliation towards the 
least victorious wing of the Royalist forces. It was with 
aversion and amazement, therefqre, that the leaders of 


WAR . . . AND TREATIES 


345 


Brittany, Maine and Anjou heard that an armistice had 
been signed on November 25 for the left bank of the Loire. 
And during the cessation of hostihties the Comte de Grignon 
was surprised and killed by the Republicans, so that since 
d'Autichamp, who had always opposed the taking up of 
arms, was more than willing, and Suzannet was hors de 
combat, there remained no obstacle to the pacification of 
Vendee. A conference for that object was imminent. 

But a suspension of arms on the left bank of the Loire 
almost of necessity brought about one on the right also, 
whether the leaders were anxious for it or no. Chatillon 
indeed was of the former for he was old and ill. But 
Cadoudal and Mercier received it with great disfavour. 
Yet, whether it were to result in peace or no, the armistice 
for the purpose of treating of pacification was promulgated 
on December 9, and Pouance in Anjou was appointed as 
the place of meeting. 

The Marquis de Kersaint, away in unvanquished 
Finistere, was too bitterly disgusted to attend these con- 
ferences in person. But, unless he wished to lose touch 
with the other leaders, he was obliged to be represented 
there, and he sent to Pouance two delegates, his chief of 
staff, the Chevalier du Menars, and the Abb^ Chassin. 

(2) 

From the Abbe Chassin* s Diary, 

Pouance, Christmas Eve, 1799 . — h good occasion for 
reviewing, before I say my first Mass of the feast, these 
brief notes that I have been keeping since M. du Menars and 
I came here a fortnight ago. Yet really all that I can say 
is that we are still here, discussing, discussing . . . The 
energy expended on these conferences might have launched 
a battle or a siege. Perhaps in its way it is as usefully 
spent. 

The party for continuing the war is in a minority, that 
is clear. But it is a very strong minority — Cadoudal, our 
mainstay here, Mercier, the Comte de Bourmont, one or 
two minor chiefs, and, of course, through our voices, the 

Marquis de Kersaint.*' That the Vendean leaders cry 
for peace one cannot wonder, for Vendee is exhausted. 
They say they have not even enough munitions for a head- 
quarters guard. But the war minority would more than 


346 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


once have liked to break off the conferences, and it was 
only after stormy discussions that M. de Bourmont was 
named as delegate to Hedouville at Angers. He has others 
with him now. I have hardly dared inform Gaston how 
things were tending, though I was sent here for that pur- 
pose. 

There is this to be said, that we began with a moral 
victory, since we obtained that the Government should 
send^no more troops into the West during the armistice. 
And our military position — except in Vendee — ^is so good 
that we have every right to hope to gain our points. 
Moreover the acts of the new Government, particularly the 
abrogation of the abominable Law of Hostages, have dis- 
posed many minds towards concihation. Some of the 
more warlike leaders, even, are not opposed to a respite, 
provided that they can remain in arms, as they are doing. 
And then there is this widespread idea among them that 
Bonaparte intends to play the part of a Monk, and use his 
power for a restoration of royalty. I must confess I do not 
share it, but M. du Menars does. At any rate time to pene- 
trate the First Consul’s intentions is no loss — ^we sent the 
Chevalier d’Andigne to Paris on December i8 to sound him. 
Moreover we want to be certain of Monseigneur le Comte 
d’ Artois’ wishes. 

So time is really what we are playing for in these negotia- 
tions with Hedouville. The worst of it is that Hedouville 
is so accommodating that he makes this difficult ! All our 
just demands are on the way to being accepted — complete 
freedom for religion, no oath or formal submission, no 
disarmament, oblivion of the past, and no conscription. 
If this is really so then we should lay down — but not give 
up — our arms on an honourable peace. But would the 
terms be observed afterwards by the Government ? 
Georges, I know, doubts it. . . . 

It is time to prepare for my Mass. I shall say all three 
in a disused church, with the leaders who are here and our 
Breton guard for congregation. The proper season for 
thoughts of peace. . . . 

December 29. — All those dreams of peace are scattered. 
Yesterday, like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, without 
warning, without justification, appeared a most violent 
and provocative proclamation from the three Consuls to the 


WAR . . . AND TREATIES 


347 


inhabitants of the West, denouncing our chiefs — who at 
the very moment are in treaty with their representative — 
but professing a tenderness for those who had been “ led 
astray by them. The Government will pardon those 
who repent, but will strike down those who, after this 
warning, dare still to resist. 

Everyone is burning with indignation. Most certainly 
the First Consul is not going to play Monk ! One begins 
to see him, a menacing figure, behind the conciliatory form 
of General Hedouville, who wishes us well and has always 
acted as an honourable opponent — and who has written, 
evidently with regret, that if we cannot come to an agree- 
ment with him by the 15th (he means of their new-fangled 
Nivdse, of which to-day is the 8th) hostilities must 
begin again, as a result of orders he has received from 
Paris. 

And, as if Fate had determined that they should, M. de 
Chatillon has this very day received a letter from Mon- 
seigneur le Comte d’ Artois confirming the instructions he 
had already sent, not to make peace unless it were part of 
a plan for the general pacification of Europe, and saying 
that help is on the way, and that he himself will soon be 
here. WiU he ? 

If he do come our forces will be doubled in the twinkling 
of an eye. Probably the First Consul knows that, and 
wishes to have done with us before he could arrive. Bona- 
parte must know, too, of our division of opinion, our want 
of arms and ammunition and artillery. I feel that he 
intends to have victory at any price, and that he would 
prefer to crush us rather than to placate — ^it would give 
him more advertisement. 

So ends the conference of Pouanc^. Georges has already 
left for the Morbihan ; La Prevalaye and Bourmont 
have returned, or are returning, to their divisions. We 
hear that the victorious army of Holland, under the 
detestable Brune, is on the way to Brittany. M. du 
Menars and I start back on our journey to Finistere in an 
hour’s time. 

• • • • • 

Quimperle, January 4. — We have taken longer than I 
expected to reach the soil of Finistere, but we have gone 
slowly on purpose, not wishing to get out of touch with 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


348 

possible developments, for we believe that the indefatigable 
H 6 iouville is tr 3 dng to get together a new conference in 
spite of the shock which slew the first. Yet, if he does, 
M. du Menars and I should not return without an authorisa- 
tion which we know well enough Gaston will never 
give. 

And now that we have seen with our own eyes to-day a 
copy of the far more violent manifesto, signed by the 
First Consul, to the Army of the West, we think that the 
sooner we are back at the Clos-aux-Grives the better, 
for that does not sound like conferences. “ The majority 
of good citizens,*' runs this proclamation, “ have already 
laid down their arms ; there remain only brigands, emigres, 
men in the pay of England — Frenchmen in the pay of 
England ! March against them ; you will not be called 
upon to display much valour . . . Let me soon leam that 
the chiefs of the rebels have ceased to exist I ” 

Such are a few phrases culled from it. That Frenchmen 
in the pay of England *’ is a clever and a galling touch. 
Indeed, it is the great misfortime of our party to be mixed 
up so inextricably with the foreigner. And yet it is not 
our fault ; it is the fault of circumstances. England 
alone, witlx Austria, continues the struggle ; she is rich ; 
it is she who disposes of the persons of most of our princes, 
since they live under her protection. . . . Yet it pleases 
me to think that epithet does not apply to Gaston, at any 
rate. The promised English subsidy amounted to very 
little ; it is his own gold, from his own house, which has 
made it possible for him to do the wonders he has done. 

I do not like that “ Let me leam that the chiefs of the 
rebels have ceased to exist " ; it savours, somehow, of 
methods unworthy of a soldier. 

January 6 . — Back at Le Clos-aux-Grives. Gaston (as 
I thought 1 should find him) determined to continue the 
struggle, whatever the rest decide. He has the advantage 
of the remotest and wildest country, and Georges, his near- 
est neighbour, will certainly do as he is doing. But the 
forces of Finistere are pitifully ' small compared to the 
enemy’s. If only he could get help by sea from England 1 

January 7 . — We hear that there is to be a new con- 
ference opened on the loth at Cande. Gaston refuses 


WAR . . , AND TREATIES 


349 

to have an5rthing to do with it, and indeed it would be 
impossible to get there in time now. 

January lo. — Decidedly we are returning to the worst 
days of the Directory. A decree has just come down 
declaring the departments of the West outlawed. 

January 15. — Negotiations were reopened two da}^ ago 
at Cand6. 

January 18. — ^Nothing settled yet at Cand^, we hear, 
but the rupture of the truce is postponed till January 22. 
Gaston speaks of sending me to England. 

January 20. — Most disastrous news. Two days ago, 
at Montfaucon-sur-Moine, the ofl&cers of Vendee signed a 
separate peace. Alas for the glorious shades of La Roche- 
jaquelein and Lescure ! 

January 22. — ^The truce expires to-day. Anjou is dis- 
banding. 

January 24. — Brune's army is getting nearer every day, 
and it is said that he is to replace Hedouville as generi- 
in-chief. We hear that Bourmont was defeated two days 
ago by Chabot at Meslay ; unless he can recover, that 
means that Maine, too, is gone. Brisk fighting is going 
on indeed in the C6tes-du-Nord, but our hopes rest on 
Cadoudal, the unbeaten and unyielding. Gaston has sent 
M. du M^nars with what men he can spare southwards. 

January 25. — A report that yesterday or the day before 
Cadoudal fought an indecisive action with Harty, com- 
manding the troops at Vannes, at Pont-du-Loc. Georges 
is not l^aten, that is clear, but, if he is not victorious, it 
may menace his bold plan of pushing on, after crushing 
Harty, to the banks of the Vilaine, and joining hands 
with Sol de Grisolles, there to await Brune’s onset — and 
after that, perhaps, of joining hands with Gaston. 

January 26. — Only too true. Georges has sent a courier 
to warn Gaston. His plan is hopeless. He fears, too, that 
Sol de Grisolles is not in a state to defend the passage of the 
Vilaine. And Bourmont has given in. 

Doubtless there is something in race, and ancient blood. 
The prospect before us, once so bright, is hourly more 
gloomy, and I know, none better, what failure means 
to Gaston. Yet he keeps his profound discouragement 
wonderfully to himself, and his little army is still as well 
disciphned as it is possible for a Chouan force to be. It is 


350 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


already unsafe for us to make the Clos-aux-Grives our 
permanent headquarters. We Hve dispersed in the 
forest, only meeting there occasionally by day, never by 
night. I write this, in fact, seated on a fallen stone of 
the dolmen where that memorable meeting— about which 
I have never been told — took place last August. I wonder 
what has become of that misguided madman, the Comte de 
Brencourt ? 

Gaston had a letter from the Duchesse to-day, sent by a 
stable-boy from La Vergne. I say to myself still, that 
whatever happens he can never be captured, in such 
proximity to the sea as he will be if we are forced to retire 
when Brune enters the Morbihan. He and she can always 
take ship for England at the eleventh hour. 

January 27. — ^The garrison of Quimper has evidently 
been reinforced. A hot brush to-day on the Lanvennec 
road. We have lost forty-three killed and wounded, 
among them, alas, two of our few remaining officers. 
Roland has got a scratch of which he is rather proud. I 
have just been dressing it. Gaston, I could see, was on 
tenterhooks about it. 

January 28. — Very bad news indeed. Cadoudal has had 
to disband his men, for fear of being crushed by Brune’s 
advance. These disastrous tidings, getting through by 
unknown channels as things do here, have caused some 
desertions. Rumours that M. du Menars is killed. It is 
very cold in the forest. 

January 29. — Brune entered Vannes yesterday, and 
made a great requisition of money, overcoats and shoes 
for his troops. I am to go to England. Would I were 
not ! 

January 30. — Last night a party of Blues from Lanvennec 
sacked and burnt the Clos-aux-Grives. There was no one 
there, and it was not worth throwing away lives in its 
defence, as it was of little use to us. ‘ Les jeunes * of course 
wanted to defend their nursery. The night was red with 
the flames of it. Farewell, old house ! 

It is true about M. du Menars. He was a brave man and 
a good officer. R.I.P. His men no longer exist as a 
force. 

I want Gaston to make for La Vergne. But he will not, 
principally, I think, because all his desire is there. But 


WAR ; . . AND TREATIES 


351 

it would be an excellent headquarters — or more accurately, 
T fear, place of retreat — for a time. 

February 4. — Cadoudal is reported to be actually treating 
v>ith Brune, and the terms, alas, include disarmament. In 
a day or two Gaston will find himself literally alone, 
with his mere handful of men, against Brune's whole 
army. He still hopes for help from England, and for 
some outcome of those ambitious plans which — ^too late — 
the Prince's council have made, and says that so long 
as he can keep open a part of the coast of Finistere for that 
purpose, so long he is doing his duty and not sacrificing 
men uselessly ; and that it will take Brune considerable 
time to advance across the Morbihan into Finistere. This 
is true. I start for England with his despatches to-morrow 
morning. My admiration for him knows no bounds ; he 
has broken those " aspera fata.” 

But this evening I had a letter from Paris, from Paul 
Berry," which has made me very uneasy. He says — and 
he should know, if anyone — that the First Consul is furious 
against the " Marquis de Kersaint," — " that insolent with- 
out an army who still holds out " — and they say that he 
has sworn to make an example of one Chouan leader at 
least. A horrible fear possesses me that that example 
may be made of the last in arms, the highest in rank, and 
... his foe of Rivoli. Does Bonaparte remember that, 
I wonder ? 

Much troubled by this letter, which I received after 
seeing Gaston and getting my last instructions I went to 
him again. The AUee des VieiUes has such a bad reputa- 
tion after dark in the district that we have been able to use 
it undisturbed as a bivouac. (It makes a detestable one, 
owing to the wind on the lande.) I found Gaston walking 
up and down in the darkness by the ghostly stones, muffled 
in his cloak. I told him what I had just heard from Paris. 
He laughed. 

Is the young man from Corsica a bugbear who has 
frightened even you, Pierre ? " he asked. " I promise 
you he shall not have me to * make an example of,' if that 
is his phrase, till the last possible moment. And when I 
have done aU I can — what does it matter if he succeeds ? " 

Seeing him in that mood, and feeling that I was leaving 
him — with what a heavy heart! — to I know not what 


352 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


imminent perils, I said, " You need never fall into his 
hands, Gaston, whatever of defeat happens. Here the 

< door is always open behind you. The sea 

He interrupt^ me, in that suddenly freezing voice he 
has when he is displeased. I am surprised at you, 
Pierre,'' he said, and turned his back on me. 

I was a little hurt ; of course I knew better than to insult 
him by suggesting that he should desert his men. I only 
meant to remind him that should it come to submission — 
and in my heart, I can see nothing else before him — once 
the formalities over, he can so easily take ship for England. 
I explained this, and, though I did not like using this 
weapon, I am so afraid of what I may be leaving him to — 
and most of all his own indomitable pride — that I added, 
" Gaston, remember that you would not sail alone 1 " 

A little quiver went through him, almost as if I had 
struck him. He said never a word, but I saw his face for a 
second in the light of the camp fire. I presumed, I dare- 
say, fcHT there is perfect imderstanding between them on all 
things — ^yet, for all that, surely she should have some con- 
sideration shown her I In that thought lies my best hope. 
But I wish to God I were not going to England. . , . 


CHAPTER V 

ALONE IN ARMS 

(I) 

About midnight on the 14th of February — ^her name-day, 
which the ladies of La Vergne had celebrated, though witli 
heavy hearts, by a little feast — Mme de Trelan was awak- 
ened by a commotion in the hall below. Many people 
seemed to be there, and she heard the jingle of accoutre- 
ments. For a moment she thought the invaders might be 
Republicans ; then, with a leap of the heart, that it might 
conceivably be . . . someone else. She opened her door 
and listened, and, since sounds floated very clearly up 
the great staircase, she did catch the sound she craved for. 
She flung on a cloak and went out into the gallery. 

Down in the hall, in the midst of his remaining staff, her 
husband was apologising with great courtesy for taking 
possession of Mme de la Vergne’s house without leave. 
Nothing, he declared, but necessity would have made him 
do so. As she must be aware, he had his back fairly to the 
wall now ; there were only sixty men with him, but it 
was possible that by using La Vergne as a centre he might 
succeed in rallying the broken remnants of the late M. du 
Menars’ force. On the morrow he would lay before the 
three ladies the arrangements he proposed for their con- 
veyance to a place of safety — though he had no intention, 
he assured her, of allowing himself to be attacked in the 
chateau. 

But Valentine heard Mme de la Vergne, a perfectly 
dignified figure, despite her hastily donned dhhahille, in 
the little crowd of uniformed and booted and lantern- 
bearing men, reply quite calmly that there was no need 
to waste time over such a discussion. My daughter and 
I shall have the honour to entertain you in our house. 
Monsieur le . . . Marquis, for as long as you require it. 
All we have is at your disposal. But we do not intend to 
leave it/' 


z 


353 


354 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Valentine did not wait for Gaston's reply ; she knew 
he would not argue the point then in front of his officers, 
including, as they did, his hostess’s son. Returning to her 
room, she began to rekindle the dying fire there, to warm 
him when he came. She felt a little stunned. She had 
not known that things were going as ill as this. 

Half an hour later she heard his knock at her door. 
As he entered she saw how his air was changed — for it was 
not only that his uniform was worn and stained, his boots 
covered with mud, the scarf she had embroidered soiled — 
and the change went like a knife through her heart. But 
all he did, the first greetings over, was to apologise for his 
state — the gentleman of the great world ashamed for 
appearing so in the presence of a woman. 

“ I am not fit to be in your room, Valentine,” he said, 
looking down at himself with distaste. ** I have not had 
my clothes off for the last week. You must forgive this 
unceremonious visit.” 

She was sitting in her chair again now, and he stood 
by her in the firelight. Pride and anguish strove together 
in her as she looked up at him. 

” Gaston, I heard what you said in the hall. Tell me 
the worst, my darling ! We have heard that Cadoudal 
is treating with the Republicans, but we cannot believe it. 
But if it should be true, if he should submit, would there 
be no one left in arms at all — ^no one in the Cdtes-du-Nord 
even — ^no one but you ... no one ? ” 

She could only see his profile. He was fingering a httle 
Chinese figure that stood on her mantelpiece. 

” Where does this mandarin come from, I wonder ? 
It reminds me of one we had at Mirabel. We had several, 
I think . . .” Then he looked down at her. ” Yes, 
Valentine, it is the last act. Cadoudal has submitted. 
He signed near Vannes yesterday 1 am alone in arms ; 
there is no one else left. Unless help comes from England 
in the next few days ” 

He broke off, turned back to the mandarin, and then, 
abruptly, his sword clanking against the floor as he did so, 
knelt down and buried his face on her knees. And, fighting 
back the sob that rose in her own throat, she folded her 
arms round his neck and kissed the wet, iron-grey hair. 

” My darling, my darling, how tired you are ! ” She 


ALONE IN ARMS 


355 


smoothed the bowed head as she would have smoothed a 
child’s, terribly conscious aU the time of the restraint he 
was putting on himself not to break down altogether. For 
his hands were gripping the arms of her chair on either side 
of her, and every now and again a shudder went through 
him. 

** I wiU never consent to the disarmament of Finistere, 
never — ^never — ^never ! ” he said in a smothered voice. “ I 
will die first ! ’’ 

Her hand stopped. “ Is that what you fear, Gaston ? 
Is that it ? O my knight without reproach, you shall do 
what you think best. If it is necessary — ^if you must in 
honour — you shall . . . die.” 

” I will not hold you back.” But she had no need to 
add that, and she did not. Her husband lifted his head, 
almost frightened at the sublimity of her self-forgetfulness. 

” Valentine,” he exclaimed, ” is it possible that you — 
a woman — understand ? ” 

** I love you,” she said simply. 

He knelt there staring at her, the firelight showing, on 
his sad and weary features, an expression that was almost 
awe. Then he made a movement and caught her to him. 

** I said you were my oriflamme. I shall fight to the 
last as long as I have the means, and with how much more 
courage if you give me leave to die ! . . . But I shall not 
let them attack La Vergne, though you, I know, would not 
fear it.” 

” Nor would the others,” she answered. ** Then will you 
not make it your headquarters ? ” 

I do not know yet. When Brune’s advance begins 
. . . But though I do not intend to stand a siege here, I fear 
I must send you and the other ladies away.” 

Valentine said nothing, but a little shiver went through 
her in her turn. 

” It is true,” said Gaston, feeling it, ” that Mme de la 
Vergne has already refused to go. And you, my darling 

** You must do as you think best,” she said again. She 
would not give open utterance to the wild prayer that was 
ringing through her. 

He sighed, and loosing his hold of her hands, got to his 
feet, drawing her up with him. 


356 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** Gaston, you will sleep now ? 

He shook his head. ** I must go round the sentries again 
first. All my ofiicers — all that are left, that is — are as 
weary as 1. As for a bed, I have not seen one for weeks. 
Something harder will be more familiar. I shall sleep in 
the hall ; there is a bearskin rug there that promises well.'* 
Where did you sleep last night, Gaston ? 

His voice changed. In a very holy place, beloved — 
the place where you came back to me from the dead — ^the 
All^e des Vieilles." 

He kissed her on the brow and went out. 

“ I never thought,"' said Artamene next day to Roland, 
with one of his old flashes of gaiety, not so frequent now 
as of yore. “ I never thought that I should live to admire 
my own mother more than Cleopatra or la Grande Made- 
moiselle and other determined ladies ! Imagine her 
standing up to M. le Due like that — and routing him ! It 
is for you to tremble, Roland, at these unsuspected qualities, 
since as your future mother-in-law ..." 

For before the unshakable determination of Mme de la 
Vergne not to be turned out of her own house, as evinced 
in a private interview with the friendly invader that 
morning, the determination — perhaps not quite so strong 
— of the Due de Troian to turn her out was baffled. 

" I think," said Lucien, " that there are disadvantages 
in being a gentleman. M. le Marquis is always grand 
seigneur ; had he been one of these sans-culotte generals 
he would have bundled her out without ceremony — 
excuse the verb, mon cher." 

" There are compensations, too," observed Roland. 
" Thanks to the admirable — or ominous — ^firmness of 
Mme de la Vergne, the Duchesse can remain also." 

" You pointedly omit the advantage to yourself, I 
notice," said Marthe’s brother. " It will be my duty to 
call you out for that, Roland, to-morrow morning. There 
being no ... no Moulin-aux-Fees handy, I suggest 
rakes, in the poultry-yard ; but you shall be buried in the 
arbour of famous memory." 

" I wonder how long any of us will stay here," observed 
Lucien thoughtfully. " And as to being buried — we may 
not have much choice in the matter of locality." 


ALONE IN ARMS 


357 


The other two looked at him with equal thoughtfulness, 
for in this ebb of fortune the idea was not by now a new one. 

“ I make only one stipulation about my death/' an- 
nounced the Chevalier de la Vergne with composure, “ and 
that is, to fall at the same moment as M. le Due. And you, 
Roland, have you chosen yours ? You look as if you were 
selecting it." 

" No, I was thinking about Mme la Duchesse," answered 
the young man rather unexpectedly. 

(^) 

It is a terrible hour when a man of superlative pride and 
self-will learns that Destiny — or another man — ^has a 
stronger will than he. 

And this hour struck for Gaston de Troian the very day 
after his arrival at La Vergne, when he received an ulti- 
matum from General Brune giving him twenty-four hours 
in which to consent to an unconditional surrender, involving 
disarmament as weU as disbandment. Otherwise the army 
of Holland, already on the march, would enter Finistere 
at several points — Finistere laid open to them not only 
by the capitulation of her more formidable neighbours, 
the Morbihan and the C6tes-du-Nord, but also by the 
dispersal of her own defenders. Never very numerous, 
they had quite forsaken the standard now, returning to 
their farms or going into hiding, and during the last few 
days it had become abundantly clear that all " M. de Ker- 
saint’s " careful organisation was in ruins ; despairing 
reports from subordinates, gentlemen or Chouans, in the 
outlying districts, each said that their little bands had 
melted away like snow. His own personal followers were, 
indeed, more than ever devoted, but the flame he had lit 
through Finistere was out, and he stood, a beaten man, 
among its ashes. 

Yet though he might be overwhelmed by numbers and 
his men scattered, so long as the arms he had been at such 
pains to procure for them were not given up to the enemy 
but hidden (as was the case) he had not utterly failed, 
since Finistere would not be defenceless for the future. 
And to disarmament he had said that he would never 
consent — he would rather die. Now it was required of 
him to give the order for it immediately. More, within 


358 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


less than ten days he was to surrender his own sword in 
person to the Repubhcan commander-in-chief. 

On this culminating humihation Brune — or rather, that 
intense and vehement personality in Paris of whom Brune 
was but the mouthpiece — ^insisted absolutely. The Mar- 
quis de Kersaint, Ixe wrote (following his instructions) 
must not only submit at once, and effectually disarm his 
men, but he must also be at Vannes on February 24 to give 
up his sword and ratify the whole transaction. If not, 
the preceding evidences of submission would go for nothing, 
and Finistere would be laid waste without the loss of a day : 
every man known to have fought under him would be shot, 
every fifth house burnt in the insurgent villages. Nothing 
would avail him unless he regularised the situation by giving 
up his own sword ; and to that end Brune sent him, with 
the ultimatum, safe-conducts for himself and an escort of 
three or four persons. 

There was no choice, no shadow of a possible alternative. 
It was not merely that Gaston de Trelan’s military situa- 
tion was hopeless — almost ludicrously so — alone with a few 
score men not merely against Brune, but, since the sub- 
mission of the other leaders, against La Baroliere and 
Chabot as well ; it was that if he refused the terms he was 
condemning Finistere to the fate that had been Vendee’s 
years ago under Turreau’s colonnes infernales. If he had 
any heart in him, any humanity, he must drink this bitter 
cup. The chance of d3dng had not been granted him ; to 
kill himself was tantamount to refusing. No help, no word 
of help, had come from England ; he did not even know 
whether the Abbe had reached his destination. Besides, 
no help could possibly come in time now. 

Nothing, nothing was left save the desperate honour of 
having been the last to uphold the splendid hopes with 
which, in the autumn, this business had begun — that, and 
a woman’s love and admiration and succour. It was Valen- 
tine who saw the dark waters close above his head and 
went down with him to the depths ; and, when the moment 
came that the words were wrenched from him, as from a 
man on the rack — “ There is no way out of it — no possible 
way out ; I must do it !” it was she who wrote at his dicta- 
tion the letter to Brune saying that, for the sake of the 
lives of others, he agreed to the terms of surrender, would 


ALONE IN ARMS 


359 


give the necessary orders, and afterwards, availing himself 
of the safe-conduct, would reach Vannes by the day 
appointed to give up his sword in person to the General-in- 
chief. 


( 3 ) 

The same night that this letter arrived at its destination, 
a young Republican officer was lying in his bed at the 
H6tel de I’Epee at Vannes, not unmindful of his good for- 
tune in having it to himself. The town was crammed with 
Republican troops, and was likely to be even fuller in a few 
days, when the drafts en route for Finistere were recalled, 
as they presumably would be now that the Marquis de Ker- 
saint had agreed to submit, which recent piece of news was 
known to the young officer — ^his name was Marcel Poulain 
— because he was on Brune’s staff. 

He was nearly asleep when the door was suddenly opened, 
and the landlord’s apologetic voice informed him that an 
aide-de-camp of the First Consul’s had just come in dead- 
beat, and, having delivered his urgent despatches to the 
General, must be given a bed at once. Unfortunately there 
was not a bed in the place which had not two occupants 
already except 

Yes there is,” interrupted the young man angrily. 
** Next door. Put him there ! ” 

I cannot, sir,” retorted the landlord. The gentleman 
next door is indisposed, and is also, I think, a Royalist. 
And the aide-de-camp has scarcely drawn rein since leaving 
Paris. . . .” 


“Oh, very well,” groaned Marcel resignedly, and almost 
immediately the heavy, stumbling steps of the exhausted 
courier could be heard along the corridor, and in another 
moment he staggered in and fell with a jangle of spurs and 
a groan on to a chair. Marcel, on his elbow, scrutinised 
him. 

“ Why,” he exclaimed, “I’m damned if it’s not Adolphe 
Bergeron ! ” 

“ I scarcely know who I am,” returned the other hoarsely. 
“ I only know that I am absolutely in pieces. I killed one 
horse . . . and all for ” He did not say for what. 

And presently, his friend having made room for him, he 
stretched himself out beside him with more groans, and 
complaints of the hardness of the bed. 


36 o 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** Poor devil ! said Marcel sympathetically. ** And so 
you knew what was in your despatches. I hope it was 
worth fla3dng yourself for ? " 

I did not know when I left Paris/* answered the rider, 
moving restlessly. Nor when I got here. But Brune 
has just let it out.” 

” Well, was it worth it ? ” 

There was no reply. ” Adolphe, you need not be so 
deuced discreet ! I’m on the staff, you know.” 

** Yes, the staff at least will know it to-morrow,” mut- 
tered Adolphe. ” — Don't let anyone guess that you 
have been told already, that’s all . . . You know that 
man who organised Finistere, de Kersaint ? ” 

” I should think I did ! ” responded Marcel with anima- 
tion. ” The General has been getting furious despatches 
about him almost every day of late from the First Consul, 
saying that he must be finished with at once, by whatever 
means. His being the only one of the Royalist leaders 
who would have nothing to do with the idea of pacification 
— even Cadoudal came down to it in the end — ^has, I suppose, 
enraged Bonaparte. However, Brune has got him in a 
cleft stick at last, and he has agreed to the terms, 
including the surrender of his sword. I saw the letter 
myself this afternoon — ^in a woman's hand it was. Have 
your despatches to do with him ? ” 

” They have,” said Adolphe. ** Exclusively, He is 
coming under a safe-conduct, I take it ? ” 

“Yes. The General sent it some days ago.” 

“ Well, it ... it is to be withdrawn. That’s what 
I have flayed myself for.” 

“ What ! O, but that’s a mistake ; it can’t be with- 
drawn now. De Kersaint has accepted it ; he is going to 
use it.” 

** To be frank,” said Adolphe, gazing at the still-burning 
candle, “ I only said ‘ withdrawn ' to make it sound better. 
It really comes to this, that it will not be observed.” 

The other bounded up in bed. “ But, great God, 
man ” 

“ I know, I know ! But I can't help it — ^it is the First 
Consul’s orders. . . . The fact is, Bonaparte means to 
have this Marquis de Kersaint ahve or dead — you have said 
as much yourself — and now, I suppose, he wiU get him.” 


ALONE IN ARMS 361 

My God ! ” said his friend, and lay down again in 
silence. 

If I had known what I was carrying," said Adolphe after 
a httle, " I might have had — an accident. But I had no 
idea, and it is done now. The order will be sent on to 
Auray and other places to-morrow." 

" Order ! But it’s impossible — one can’t send an order 
hke that ! Surely a safe-conduct, once given, is the most 
sacred thing a soldier knows. If he does not observe it 
— O, it’s the dirtiest, most damnable treachery I ever heard 
of ! Pah ! is that the way they do things in Corsica ? ’’ 

" Chut, mon ami, walls have ears," said the aide-de- 
camp wearily. " But you are right ; it is infamous. They 
say in Paris that he has all along wanted someone of whom 
to make an example, for the sake of the impression. Yet 
all the other leaders submitted, as you say. But this 
man who has held out so, besides that he put Bonaparte to 
inconvenience at Rivoli — ah, I forgot, you were there — 
is also, it appears, a ci-devant of the ci-devants ; no less 
than the Due de Trelan, in fact. Brune let that out too ; 
Fouche, it seems, discovered it. So he would be worth 
capturing, and Brune, not being troubled with scruples, 
will obey orders. . . . And I brought them ! " 

" I wish now you had not told me," said Brune’s young 
staff-officer. 

Another than he had been told also, for walls have ears, 
and that by the side of their bed happened to be merely a 
cracked wooden partition. The officer of Bourmont’s 
disbanded army who lay ill in the next room had, therefore, 
heard every word of their conversation. He was Artus de 
Brencourt. 


CHAPTER VI 

“ SWORD, THY NOBLER USE IS DONE ! " 

“ Le vin est verse ; il faut le hoire” The words of the old 
adage rang in Valentine’s head to-night. Not long ago 
Gaston had quoted them. She had never before so felt 
their inexorable quality — ^for to-morrow he must set out 
to Vannes to drink it. . . . He had said farewell to his 
very few remaining officers, disbanded, of his handful of 
men, all but a few sentries, and wanted to ride alone to his 
surrender, but ‘ les jeunes ’ had made such an outcry at this, 
and begged so hard to be his escort, that, as the other 
safe-conducts were blank, he consented. 

It was past midnight, and he was stiU writing, by the 
hght of a couple of candles, at a table in the embrasure of 
the large window in their room at La Vergne. Despite the 
cold, Valentine was sitting on the seat in the space between 
her husband and the heavily curtained window — the seat 
where, that October night, she had found and kissed his 
sword. Now, that same sword. . . . She looked between 
the candle-flames at his downbent face. One hand sup- 
ported his head as he wrote, the fingers running up into the 
thick, rippling hair. The last three months of strain had 
aged him a little ; but she saw nothing there that she 
did not love and honour. 

The chateau was very stiU. Now and again, even 
through the closed window, Valentine could hear the foot- 
fall of the sentry on the flags below. But, after the recent 
armed occupation, this was hke the last moments before 
death. To-morrow there would be no sentry — nothing to 
guard. It would all be over. 

She pulled aside the curtain and looked out. There was 
a royal moon ; she had forgotten it. The terrace sparkled 
with thinly fallen snow, and she could see how it powdered 
the bare, pleached boughs of the arbour where, in the 
spring, Roland and the son and daughter of the house 

^62 


SWORD, THY NOBLER USE IS DONE ! 363 


had planned the invasion of Mirabel. And she saw, too, 
in the distance — or was it fancy ? — a silver streak, the 
sea. 

Ah, if they were there, embarking — ^if Gaston could but 
be spared the purgatory that lay before him first. She 
glanced at him again. He had death in his soul ; she 
knew that. Le vin est verst . . . 

It was not merely that he shrank, as any soldier might, 
from the personal humiliation of surrendering his sword ; 
it was also that he had given to this enterprise, so nearly 
successful, not only his arm, but his heart. Only lately 
had she come to see what the overthrow of the cause meant 
to him ; indeed she had not fully learnt it yet. Was he 
writing to the Comte d’ Artois, she wondered now — to the 
Prince who, once again, had never come ? If she had 
held the pen there were words, burning words, that she 
would have written to that royal laggard ! O, how could 
the man exist who knew that a whole population was 
sacrificing itself for him and his family, that for years 
they had been dying for him on the battlefield and the 
scaffold, that his appearance was the one thing they asked 
of life, and his presence would cause aU that suffering and 
sacrifice to be forgotten — ^how could he know all this . . . 
and not come ! 

Valentine clenched her hands. He whom she loved was 
driven to this pass through Charles of Bourbon. He had 
fought to keep open a harbour for the sails that never 
came, and was now left, deserted and alone, to drink this 
bitter wine. . . . The tears began to creep down her face 
— tears of wrath. She did not want Gaston to see them, and 
turning away, her forehead against the cold glass, she 
swallowed them down, trying to fix her thoughts instead 
on that silver gleam of sea, which, when the surrender 
was consummated, would bear them both away from the 
land of the once more lost cause. 

When she had regained her self-control she dropped the 
curtain and turned back into the room. Her husband 
had laid down his pen and was leaning back in his chair, 
his hands along the arms. His look was remote and very 
grave. She rose from the seat, knelt down beside him and 
took his right hand in both of hers. His gaze came from 
far off and rested on her— still very grave. 


364 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


" Gaston, I believe I can see the sea — the moon is so 
bright.'^ 

“ Yes ? " said he, with a note of enquiry. 

I wish we were down there now," she went on rather 
unsteadily, " — where the yellow poppies bloomed last 
autumn. Do you remember ? " 

" Do I remember ? Do I ever forget ? I have them 
safe — ^what you gave me." He touched his breast with his 
other hand. 

" My darling, if they could only bring you forgetfulness — • 
forgetfulness of to-morrow ! " 

He shook his head. " They will not easily do that." 
From her his glance strayed to the sheathed sword lying 
on the table. She could not bear to see his face when he 
looked at it, and hid her own. 

He seemed then to make an effort to turn his thoughts. 
" You were speaking of the sea, beloved. When this . . . 
this business is over, the sea shall take us away at last to 
happiness." 

Valentine raised her head quickly. " At last ! Gaston, 
no happiness over the sea, in tranquillity, can ever have 
the taste of this I have known, in warfare, since last sum- 
mer I It can never be better, even as this, come ^hat may, 
can never be less. If it ended to-morrow, you know that 
I have lived to see all that I dreamt of — more than I 
dreamt of ! O, my knight, when the utmost has been 
wrought, what matters the broken sword ! Please God 
there are many more happy days before us . . . but not 
better, not happier days ! " 

Their hps met in silence. Then, as she knelt there, he 
bowed his head till it rested on her shoulder. Grief and 
love were one. 

The promise of the serene moon of the night was not 
fulfilled. Flurries of sleet were sweeping over the country- 
side next morning ; the strip of sea was the colour of slate, 
and the wind howled in all the tall chimneys. 

In this tumult Gaston bade farewell to Valentine up- 
stairs. He and his escort calculated to reach Quimperl4 
that night, and Vannes the next, so that, unless the roads 
were in very bad condition, she might hope to see him back 
on the fourth day. 


SWORD, THY NOBLER USE IS DONE ! 365 


Downstairs in the wide hall with the young men were 
Mme de la Vergne and Marthe, the former as if she clung 
to the fiction of speeding a parting guest. But they were 
all very quiet, looking silently at the staircase when the 
Due de Trelan, pale and upright, came down it pulling on 
his gauntlets. 

“You have your safe-conducts on you, gentlemen, I 
hope ? “ he said as he descended. 

“ Have you your safe-conduct. Monsieur le Due ? ** 
asked Marthe impulsively, coming to the foot of the stairs. 
Her little hands were clenched ; she hated this business 
almost as much as he. 

But Gaston reassured the impetuous girl, and saluted 
Mme de la Vergne while Artamene went down the steps 
to the horses, iready there in charge of Lucien and a 
groom. Roland remained, the Due's riding cloak over his 
arm. 

“ I hate this day more than any God ever made ! “ said 
his betrothed to him under her breath. Her eyes looked 
as if she had not slept. Roland took her hands and drew 
her to him, but he could not give her any verbal comfort. 

And then, just as M. de Trelan was bending in farewell 
over Mme de la Vergne’s fingers, there came with the cold 
wind through the open door the sound of a galloping horse 
stayed at the very perron, expostulatory voices at the 
bottom, and feet running up the steps. Next moment, 
breathing hard, a man burst into the hall with Artamdne 
behind him. 

“ Thank God, I am in time ! “ he jerked out — puUed 
off his hat as he saw the ladies, and revealed the features of 
the Comte de Brencourt. 

He was spattered with mud and half melted snow up to 
his very shoulders ; his riding boots were one cake of it. 
But he went straight towards the Due de Trdan, disregard- 
ing every one else. 

“ Don't go to Vannes, de Kersaint ! " (the old name 
was evidently still the more natural). “ Don’t go, for 
God's sake — there is treachery ! '' 

Marthe gave a cry that went unheeded. 

“ Treachery ! '' ejaculated Gaston. His eyes lit up. 
** You dare to come and use that word in front of me — 
But, perhaps, as an expert, you feel privileged ? " 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


366 

The Comte at that terrible rebuff stood a moment 
rigid, then he reeled a step backwards exactly as if 
he had been struck. Encountering a high-backed chair 
he gripped it with one hand, steadied himself, and said, 
in a voice that the air seemed to dissipate, “ Your safe- 
conduct is waste paper." His face was quite grey. 

The Due surveyed him pitilessly for a second or two ; 
then he slightly shrugged his shoulders and turned away. 
" I am afraid that you have ridden very hard to no 
purpose, Monsieur," he observed. " Roland, my cloak, 
please ! " 

The Comte flung out his free hand. " You are going to 
your death ! " he said wildly. "You are mad — I have 
warned you . . . Where is Mme de Trelan, she might " 

" Leave my wife’s name out of your fabrications, 
if you please ! " said Gaston like a rapier thrust, turning 
on his heel towards him for a brief instant. " Well, 
Roland ? " 

The thunderstruck young man approached with the 
cloak, and put it on his leader's shoulders in the midst of an 
extraordinary silence which even Artamene did not dare 
tc break. It was the messenger of destiny himself who 
bioke it, with something between a sob and a laugh. 

"You are all mad here, I think . . . Madame — or you. 
Mademoiselle, perhaps you have some influence ? As there 
is a God above us, it is a matter of this gentleman’s hfe. 
Orders have come from the First Consul to Prune that his 
safe-conduct is not to be observed, and those orders have 
been transmitted at least as far as Auray, and probably 
further by this time. Can you not stop him ? " 

And at that Gaston flung his cloak back on to Roland’s 
arm, went up to Mme de la Vergne, said something to her 
in a low tone which caused her and Marthe to withdraw 
to the other end of the haU, motioned Roland and Arta- 
mene also away, and, going up to the Comte, looked him in 
the eyes and said in a voice vibrating with anger, "No man 
or woman hving keeps me from doing what I intend to do 
— ^have you not learnt that yet. Monsieur de Brencourt ? 
And, as for your story, I ceitainly put more faith in 
Brune’s honour than in yours ! " 

The Comte, livid, swallowed something in his throat. 
** Your safe-conduct is waste paper," he repeated. " I 


" SWORD, THY NOBLER USE IS DONE ! ** 367 


heard it with my own ears/* Then he broke out with 
some of his old vehemence, ** Good God, de Trelan, why 
won't you believe me ? — If this were not true, why do you 
think I have ridden nearly eighty miles, iU as I am, in this 
mad haste ? " 

The man he had so treacherously used continued to look 
at him. He had not raised his own voice at all, and it was 
low now, unhurried, and colder than the wind from glaciers. 

That is a question which only you can answer, Monsieur 
le Comte. I cannot pretend to fathom the motives of a 
man so utterly false as you. I can only suppose that 
having failed in the past to deprive me of my life . . . and 
more than my life . . . you are now trying to take from me 
something more precious than either, my honour. But 
I am not to be frightened by talk of treachery into 
breaking my pledged word. You have faded this time 
also. Monsieur de Brencourt. — Come, gentlemen, it is time 
to start." 

He had finally turned his back. The Comte, speech- 
less, bowed his head against the high chair to which he was 
holding. What could he do against this attitude ? He had 
anticipated contempt, hatred, but never disbelief. He 
lifted his head once more, tried to say, "For your wife’s 
sake ! ’’ but the words stuck in his throat, and besides, the 
Due was at the door now with the young men — ^was descend- 
ing the steps. All that came to his dry lips was the old 
tag, " Your blood be on your own head ! ’’ Then his 
limbs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed into 
the chair, hiding his face in his hands. Outside there 
were sounds of mounting and of riding away ; then 
silence. 

Marthe and her mother, with rather pale faces, looked at 
each other, and then at the mudstained figure huddled in the 
chair, the elder woman uneasily, Marthe with distaste. 
Since the Due so disbelieved his story, they disbelieved it 
too. Then Mme de la Vergne, mindful as ever of the 
claims of hospitality, addressed the stranger. 

" May I not order some refreshment for you after your 
ride. Monsieur ? ’’ 

At her voice de Brencourt roused himself, and rose stiffiy. 
But he responded by a question. 


368 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


** This is your house, Madame, I think — not the Due de 
Trelan’s ? ’’ 

“ Certainly it is my house,” responded Mme de la Vergne. 
The gentleman looked ghastly ill, as she now saw. 

” Then I should be very glad of a glass of wine . . . 
before I ride away again. My mission . . . has been 
fruitless, but I am ... I have ...” His voice tailed off 
into nothing. 

” Monsieur, sit down again — you are unwell ! ” cried 
Mme de la Vergne sharply. \^atever the subject of 
disagreement between him and M. de Trelan — and it must 
have been very acute — she did not want to have him 
fainting in her hall. ” Marthe, go and order something 
to be brought at once — and pray give yourself the trouble 
to come to the fire. Monsieur ; you must be frozen.” 

M. de Brencourt obeyed, but with difficulty, and sank 
into a great chair that she pushed forward. “You do 
not object to my being in your house a little ? The 
treachery — you heard that ? — is not what you probably 
think. O, my God, my God, why did I come myself ? 
He might have listened to someone else ! ” 

But he found himself alone. He put his cold hand over 
his eyes and groaned aloud. Yes, the desperate fight he 
had had with himself to do this thing in person, after his 
failure to find a trustworthy messenger — and the result, 
the reward ! Surely, in the few minutes that had 
passed, he had paid to the full. But he had paid in 
vain. . . . 

His head was swimming ; his body frozen. A tray 
appeared beside him, brought by that scornful girl herself. 
She vanished again. He seized and drained the glass of 
wine upon it, and a little warmth stole into him. He heard 
a footstep, the flow of a robe ; the lady of the house back 
again, no doubt. But, when he looked round, there, gazing 
at him in astonishment, was the Duchesse de Troian. 

He got up and flung himself towards her. 

“ I did it for your sake,” he cried, hardly knowing what 
he said, “ — and he repulsed me like a dog. I was told I 
should live to do you a service . . . and I thought the 
day had come. But he ... he affected to think it was 
. . . false . . . and he has gone, despite my warning.” 

“ Warning ! ” stammered Valentine, blanching. “ Warn- 


" SWORD, THY NOBLER USE IS DONE ! '' 369 

ing of what ? I was above — I did not know that you were 
here/* 

“ I imagine so,** he retorted bitterly. But she had no 
room in her mind for any emotion but one. 

“You came to warn M. de Troian ? ** she said, and he 
saw that she was twisnng her fingers together. “ That was 
... I thank you. But — ^what is the danger ? . . . 
because he is gone ! ** The last four words came out with 
little less than terror behind them. 

He could do her the immense, deliberate, though defeated 
wrong that he had done, but, face to face with her again, 
after all he had sinned and suffered, he shrank from dealing 
her the blow his undiluted knowledge must deal. And it 
was too late now for any benefit to come of it, for, as she 
had said, the Due was gone. 

He dropped his eyes. “ I heard a rumour,** he said, 
“ that there was a regiment of the soldiers from Holland 
somewhere on the Vannes road, and that they might not 
be too particular in the observance of a safe-conduct. 
That was all ; and no doubt it was false . . . and at 
any rate,** he added, his bitterness getting the better of 
him again, “ M. de Trelan saw fit not only to disregard my 
warning, but to insult me into the bargain.** 

“Not to observe the safe-conduct ! ** exclaimed the 
Duchesse sharply. “ But that is unthinkable ! ** 

(Yes, anything but his peril had passed her by ; tliat 
was clear.) 

“You are right, it is reailly unthinkable,** he answered 
wearily. “ I was a fool to come, and I will reheve you of 
my presence.** 

He meant, indeed, on that to walk straight out of the 
place. But he was not a young man ; he had been ill ; 
he had asked too much of his body. His head turned 
once more, and violently; he caught at the arm of the 
chair from which he had risen, and, not to fall altogether, 
slid back into it. And then the mud, the pallor, the 
deadly fatigue were all visible to Valentine, and she realised 
with a shock the thing he had done — for her. He saw it 
in her face as she came to him. 

“ You do believe me then, Valentine ? It may not be 
true, but I believed it ! ** he said confusedly, forgetting that 
he had not revealed the heart of the peril. “ And I tried 


370 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


to stop him — against my will, yes, against my will ! But 
you do believe me, — in spite of the past ? ** 

The hoarse words were torn out of him, and when she 
let him have her hand as she bent over him, he put his 
head down on it and broke into a moment’s strangled 
sobbing. 


CHAPTER VII 

HOW AT THE LAST THE WINE WAS NOT DRUNK 
(l) 

By very hard going the four riders got to Quimperl^ that 
night, despite the state of the roads. They slept there 
entirely unmolested ; a small detachment of troops indeed 
occupied the town, but the mere sight of Brune’s signa- 
ture was enough. And the anxiety of ‘ les jeunes ’ at least — 
the Due would not discuss the matter — ‘ les jeunes ’ who had 
only half heard, was much allayed. It did not strike them 
that they were still within the confines of Finistere, and 
that possibly the disgraceful orders had not yet crossed the 
Scorfi. Yet, all unknown to their leader, they took that 
night in the hdtel a certain precaution which might have 
remained unknown to him, had he not, waking in the dark 
of the early morning, and perplexed by a sound outside his 
door for which he could not account, ht a candle and 
softly opened it ; and so come on his own son stretched out 
there asleep across the threshold, his pistols within reach 
of his hand, and his drawn sword beneath his head. 

Gaston looked down, not a little moved, at that em- 
bodiment of his own youth guarding him, and, shading the 
light, contemplated the sleeping boy as he had done last 
year in the attic at Hennebont. Laure's face, grown so 
shadowy now, came back for a moment to haunt him. 
** I wish I could tell him,"' he said to himself. But there 
was his promise ; and with a sigh he went in and closed the 
door again. 

The Due made no reference next morning to his discovery, 
and thus never learnt that they had all taken their turns 
in devotion. When they reached Pont-Scorfi they were 
already in the Morbihan, but through Pont-Scorff they rode 
without even having to show their safe-conducts. As 
Auray was rather too long a stage before the mid-day meal, 
and as the horses, with die exception of Zeph5T, were now 

371 


372 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


going none too well, they decided to eat dejeuner at Henne- 
bont, and about noon they drew rein before the chief inn 
in the httle town which had seen them creep into it like 
thieves in the dusk, nearly a year ago. But though they 
came openly now they were incomparably heavier-hearted. 

As they dismounted, Gaston desired two of them to 
look after the tired horses while he ordered the meal. 
Lucien and Artam^ne detached themselves for this duty, 
and disappeared down a dark entry with the four steeds. 
The Due, followed by Roland, entered the inn. 

Evidently HennebDnt was full of soldiers ; officers of all 
arms were lounging outside and inside the door of the 
hostelry, but, though they looked with extreme curiosity 
at the Royalists, no one seemed to find tlieir presence 
unnatural, or made the faintest show of asking for some 
authorisation of it. Not even to Gaston did it occur that 
here, in the Morbihan, they were being taken for officers of 
Cadoudal’s disbanded army who had presumably not yet 
divested themselves of their uniforms, but who were none 
the less amnestied. To Roland it was an extraordinary 
experience to pass through these throngs of Blues as if 
they possessed some charm ; they did not even need to 
show those safe-conducts. But of course they were safe 
with an honourable foe ; were their enemies not fellow- 
countrymen ? 

The inn parlour, with its small round tables, was crowded 
with guests, both civil and military. As M. de Trelan 
came in, followed by the young man, not a few looked up 
at the two handsome Chouan officers, of whom Gaston's 
high rank could only be guessed at by the air of distinction 
that never left him, for he was not openly wearing his 
scarf, and the httle cross on his breast was too rare a decora- 
tion to be widely known. They sat down at the only 
unoccupied table, one in a corner opposite the door, and 
the Due ordered four covers. The be-coiffed peasajit girl 
who received his commands asked for indulgence if there 
were delay, for, as the gentlemen could see, they were very 
busy. 

** Shall I go out then, and help the others with the horses. 
Sir ? " su^ested Roland. His leader nodded, and Roland 
got up, sthl thinking how odd it was to sit down placidly 
and eat in a room full of Blues. There were quite a dozen 


HOW THE WINE WAS NOT DRUNK 373 

officers there — ^hussars, dragoons and infantry. The eyes 
of some of these officers followed him as he threaded his 
way between the tables. Possibly they also found it 
piquant to see a former foe moving about unmolested. 

Feminine eyes followed him, too, appreciative of his 
youth and looks, eyes set in the face of a youngish, buxom 
woman wearing an extravagant bonnet and luxurious 
furs of marten who sat — strangely enough, with her back 
to most of the company — at a table in one of the other 
corners. With her was a big florid man over whose air of 
importance, every time he looked at his companion, there 
passed a milder and obscuring gleam, even as a light cloud 
drifts over the face of the moon. Any guests who had 
noticed them decided that they were probably bride and 
bridegroom, and all the more sentimental because they 
were neither of them in their first youth. And newly wed 
in fact they were — M. and Mme Georges Camain, on their 
way to Lorient, at which port M. Camain had to inspect 
some warehouses for the Government. By taking his 
Rose with him he hoped to combine pleasure with business. 

Mme Camain’s eyes, therefore, travelled after the young 
man, as he entered her sphere of vision just before going 
through the door. Her husband thereupon leant over the 
table and tapped her on the pretty, plump hand with the 
new wedding ring. 

“ Eyes right, please ! ** he said jocosely. ** You are only 
allowed to look at me now.’* 

“ He reminds me of someone, that child,” observed the 
lady reflectively. ” A long time ago . . .” 

” Eat your partridge, ma mie, and never mind about 
the days before the Flood,” commanded Camain, setting 
her the example. ” Remember, too, that we have ordered 
the carriage to be at the door by one o’clock, and that 
time is getting on.” 

Rose pouted. ” I suppose you think you have a right 
to be je^ous now, vieux monstre ! ” 

” It is not only a right, but a duty I ” returned the 
monster cheerfully, going on eating, however, with a very 
care-free appetite. 

But Rose was intrigued by the passage of the young man. 
” I wonder if he was alone ? ” she murmured, a^, between 
taking pecks at her partridge, continually turned her head 


374 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


and craned her neck towards that quarter of the room from 
which she divined that he had come. But it was in vain ; 
for, short of getting up and turning round altogether, she 
could not see it. 

And Gaston de Trelan, at that table in the corner, his 
head on his hand, his thoughts far away, sat waiting for 
the advent of the meal and the return of his aides-de-camp. 
The two nearest officers, dragoons, with their heads close 
together over their wine, alternately looked at him and 
whispered to one another. Meanwhile people ate steadily. 

All at once Rose, whose curiosity, though almost motive- 
less, was proving too strong for her, saying to her astonished 
husband, “ I think I must have dropped my handkerchief 
from my reticule as I came in,” got up from her place 
before he had time to protest, and walked, her eyes on the 
floor as though searching for something, till she came to a 
spot whence she could conveniently glance at that one 
table in the corner which she could not see when seated. 
Having arrived there, she sped a look at it — at the 
Royahst officer sitting there alone who, as she moved 
across the room, raised preoccupied eyes in her 
direction. ... 

Next moment the entire company was electrified to see 
the pretty little woman in the marten furs clasp her hands 
suddenly together, and give a tiny scream which penetrated 
through all the clatter of knives and the babel of conversa- 
tion. And then, more or less of silence having descended, 
she broke out with a name — 

“ Monsieur de Trelan ! Is it possible ! ” 

And not to realise who was the object of this touching 
recognition was difficult, for the solitary Chouan officer 
in the corner, after staring a moment, rose slowly to his 
feet and bowed — as a man bows to an unknown lady. 
Yet Rose stood there, her face quite white under her 
preposterous bonnet, apparently oblivious that every eye 
was either on her, or on the man to whom she had drawn 
attention. Then the wave of mild universal surprise was 
broken into and flung aside by a billow of a much more 
menacing kind. For, with an exclamation, one of the 
neighbouring officers of dragoons leapt to his feet, his 
chair falling backwards behind him, and strode in front of 
the Royahst’s table. 


HOW THE WINE WAS NOT DRUNK 375 

Monsieur de Trelan — or Monsieur de Kersaint, as 
you prefer — ^will you have the kindness to follow me ? ’' 

Gaston, coldly amused, surveyed him for a moment. 

No, Monsieur, I must beg to dechne,” he said. Your 
zeal is admirable, but misplaced.** And he laid his hand 
on the back of his chair, with a view, evidently, to sitting 
down again. 

You deny then that you are de Kersaint, the general of 
Finistere ? ** 

“Not for a moment ! ** 

“ Then,** said the officer with a gesture, “ it is my un- 
pleasant duty to arrest you. You be wise, as you see, 
not to resist.’* 

The Due de Trelan rehnquished his hold of the chair and 
drew himself up. “You must be dreaming. Monsieur,** 
he retorted. “You have no power to arrest me. I am 
on my way to Vannes under General Brune’s safe-conduct. 
You must know that, since you know who I am.** 

For all reply the officer turned and beckoned to the 
rest. But his companion was already there beside him, 
and from every quarter of the room the other Republicans 
were hurrying, between the tables, to that table in the corner 
behind which stood their quarry, alone. 

“ I have a safe-conduct,** repeated Gaston very haughtily. 
“ Am I not speaking to Frenchmen ? — I have this also ! *’ 
He took a step or two backwards, and his sword sprang 
out. 

“ You had better come without resistance. Monsieur de 
Kersaint,** said the officer of dragoons menacingly. “ I 
have a squadron of my men out there within hail, and 
these gentlemen, you can see, are in receipt of the same 

orders. As for your aide-de-camp ** He snapped his 

fingers. 

But Camain, pushing his bulky form through the on- 
lookers, here broke in. “ Look here, gentlemen, this 
officer says he has a safe-conduct. Give him at least the 
chance of showing it ! ** 

“ Who are you ? ’* asked the dragoon rudely over his 
shoulder. “ A damned civihan ! This is a matter for the 
military, thanks ! The Chouan general de Kersaint is to 
be arrested, safe-conduct or no safe-conduct ; those are 
the orders of the First Consul himself ! ** 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


376 

Camain drew up his imposing figure. I am deputy for 
the department of Maine-et-Loire," he declared in his 
deepest voice. “ (Be quiet. Rose ! ) What you are pro- 
posing to do is atrocious, and I protest ! " 

“ Go back to your department then, and protest there ! " 
retorted the officer insolently. “Now that Madame has 
so obhgingly furnished the identification we wanted . . . 
Once more. Monsieur de Kersaint, will you come, or will 
you have a useless m^lee here ? ” 

Gaston set his teeth. It was true after all, this 
incredible infamy ! If he had listened to de Brencourt ! 
. . . Valentine — should he ever see her again ? The room, 
seething now with excitement, swam for a second. . . . No, 
they should not take him ahve ! This, the last, would be 
a good fight — one against how many . . . twelve, thir- 
teen ? He sUpped a couple of feet further backwards 
still, till he was almost in the angle of the wall, the blade 
he had never thought to use again glittering in his hand. 
Then he smiled, not altogether scornfully. His intention 
was obvious. 

In the ring now round him several other swords sUd out. 
Most of the guests, vociferating, had already made a bolt 
for the door, but Rose was clmging to her husband in a 
frenzy. “ Georges ! Georges ! don’t let them do it ! It 
is the Due, it is indeed ! Tell them you had charge of 
Mirabel — teU them ..." But her words, vain in any 
case, could not penetrate the uproar. And, even as she 
spoke, the officer of dragoons drew and cocked , a pistol. 
“ Now, for the last time, Monsieur de Kersaint ! See, we 
do not want to harm your escort, if you have one — our 
business is not with them — but if you drive us to use force, 
you will certainly get them killed as well as yourself ! “ 

His escort ! that escort for the moment, mercifully, out 
of hearing. In the imminent prospect of combat Gaston 
had forgotten them. Good God, that was only too true 
— they would certainly get themselves cut to pieces for 
him ! Roland — Roland ! — and those other boys slaughtered 
for his sake . . . and uselessly I The idea was too hor- 
rible, He must let them take him — quickly. His face 
grew sombre, and he lowered his point a little. 

“ So this is the First Consul’s honour ! ’’ he said, but his 
voice cut hke a sword, “ — and yours, soldiers and French- 


HOW THE WINE WAS NOT DRUNK 377 

men ! I was warned of this — ^but I would not believe such 
a thing possible ! 

“ It is orders ! a chorus answered him. 

“ Swear that you will let my escort go unharmed — ^no, 
how can I rely on your word ? " he said, looking con- 
temptuously round, and this time no one answered him. 

At least I shall never give up my sword now, since there 
is no one left worthy to receive it.” And before anyone 
had moved he had put his left hand to the naked blade, 
and, bending his knee, snapped the weapon across. Then he 
threw the two halves at his feet and folded his arms. ” I 
am at your disposal . . . gentlemen . . . only be quick 
about it ! ” 

They had no desire to be other than speedy. There was 
a travelling carriage just drawn up at the inn door ; small 
matter that it belonged to the Deputy who had tried to 
interfere. Five minutes later, with fifty dragoons round it, 
that carriage had started for Auray and Vannes, while the 
remaining officers, having thrust aside the doubly infuriated 
Camain, were deaUng in the passage with the distracted 
young men of their prisoner’s escort, to whom news of the 
catastrophe had meanwhile penetrated. The short and 
furious mel6e was indeed none of the Repubhcans' seeking, 
but its end was just as inevitable as if it had been. . . . 
For Artamene, his head laid open by a sabre, having 
stumbled, blinded with blood, into the eating-room, and 
fallen his length among the tables, lay there without stirring ; 
while Lucien, his arm fractured, leant with shut eyes 
against the doorpost, his uniform tom on one side from 
shoulder to waist. And in the now emptied setting of the 
drama which she had unwittingly brought about. Rose 
Camain, kneeling by the bleeding and unconscious boy 
on the floor, but not trying in any way to succour him, her 
hands to the sides of her head in approved theatrical fashion, 
was sending forth shriek after shriek. . . . 

(2) 

But Roland, uninjured though almost crazy, was in the 
yard, his hands shaking so much as he re-saddled Zephyr 
that he could hardly puU the girths. Even so, he had 
enough wits left to r^se that the large stout man, himself 
greatly discomposed, who had, as far as he remembered. 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


378 

dragged him bodily out of the affray, was right when he 
said that it was perfectly useless to follow the vanished 
carriage along the Auray road. The best thing that he 
could do was to hasten back to Finistere and spread the 
news. Roland was conscious that his adviser was helping 
him now, keeping up, as he put on Zephyr’s bridle, a 
running accompaniment of wrath — “ Disgraceful . . . 
infamous ... to purloin a carriage too. . . . 

“ Look here, boy,” he said suddenly, throwing the reins 
over the Arab’s neck,” — ^by the way, I suppose you’re his 
son, are you not ? ” 

Roland, too dazed and wretched to be surprised at the 
idea, shook his head, and put his foot in the stirrup. 

” You’re devilish hke him,” said Camain explanatorily. 
” Wait a minute — I want to say something. The Duchesse 
de Trelan — ^if you see her, tell her she can command my 
services. Camain, my name is ; she knew me at Mirabel 
... I expect you have heard about that. H6tel du Lion 
d’Or at Lorient will find me.” 

Roland, in the saddle now, nodded. 0 God, 0 God, they 
had let him he taken ! 

” I’ll see that your comrades are looked after,” added 
the Deputy kindly, looking up at his young, desperate face. 
” I hope it is all a mistake — damn it all, it must be ! and 
that they will release him when they get to Vannes. Yet 
it is best not to count on it. Good luck to you ! ” 

Roland bent down and seized the hand of the ex-adminis- 
trator of Mirabel, who so little divined in him the 
” marauder ” of last April, and next moment was out of 
the courtyard. 

But even as he passed under the tunnel leading to the 
street he heard this Camain calling after him, and impa- 
tiently reined up again. 

” Look here, young man,” said the Deputy in a lowered 
tone, ” as it was owing to my — as I feel a sort of interest 
in the Trelan family, I’m damned if I don’t follow those 
scoundrels to Vannes to-night, just to keep an eye on the 
business. Tell the Duchesse that — and should she come 
to Vannes in person, tell her to go to the H6tel de I’Epee, 
and if I am not stiU there myself I wiU leave a message 
for her.” 

** God bless you ! ” said Roland, with tears in his eyes. 


HOW THE WINE WAS NOT DRUNK 379 

Then he was in the street, and a moment or two later, 
riding hke mad back along the road to Finistere. 

For some miles he galloped on almost without thought, 
he was so numb with misery and incredulity. Zephyr, the 
incomparable, seemed quite fresh, despite the distance he 
had come since yesterday morning. That was why he had 
taken him. ... A rescue — ^how was it to be brought 
about ? It all seemed to rest on his shoulders. A terrible 
feeling of helplessness began to wrap him round as he pushed 
on through the cold rain which was now beating on him. 
Was he reaUy acting for the best in returning like this, and 
what was to be done when he got back — the men all dis- 
banded ? If only the Abbe were there ! And how should 
he ever teU the Duchesse ? The clouds about him seemed 
thick with the shame and anguish in his heart. And 
Zephyr was not so fresh after aU. 

What did they mean to do with the Due ? Hold him 
as a hostage ? They dared do nothing worse, in the face 
of that full safe-conduct. Even the First Consul would not 
dare. It was a mistake ; yes, a piece of bravado. Yet if 
only they had listened to M. de Brencourt ! 

He had covered many miles without drawing rein. The 
night was beginning, the early February night. And Zephyr, 
the tireless and surefooted, had stumbled twice. “ O 
Zephyr, don’t you fail too, as we have failed ! ” cried his 
rider. 

Over the border at last into Finistere, and through Quim- 
perle, where they had slept yesterday. It was dark now, 
and snowing a little. He meant to ride all night, but at 
Bannalec it was plain that it was an impossibility both for 
him and his gallant horse. He tried to get another ; could 
not, and fell asleep from exhaustion even as he argued about 
it with the people of the inn. They carried him up and 
put him to bed. He had covered not quite half of the 
distance back. 

It was afternoon of the next day when at last he got to 
La Vergne, and he could hardly get out of the saddle, hardly 
drag himself up the steps. No sentry now. He lifted the 
great knocker ; the door swung open. Someone had heard 
the hoofs. It was Marthe. She caught at him as he 
stumbled into the hall. “ Roland, what is it ? O, what 
has happened ? ” 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


3S0 

' 'Bad news/* said he, so weary he could scarcely frame 

the words. “ The Due ** A cold mist suddenly drove 

at him across the hall ; when it cleared he saw Mme de la 
Vergne hurrying towards him, and that Marthe had her 
arms round him, half supporting him. And who was the 
man rising from a chair by the hearth ? But he saw also 
the Duchesse de Troian, who must have been coming down 
the great staircase, standing as if turned to marble in her 
descent, a few feet from the bottom. . . . And he broke 
away from Marthe, for he knew he must tell her at once. 

" Madame, they have arrested the Due at Hennebont — 
they have taken him to Vannes ... it was true about the 
safe-conduct . . . the others are hurt — killed, perhaps 
. . .** And sobbing out, " How can we save him ? ** 
clutching at her dress, he sank forward exhausted on the 
stairs, his head against her very feet. 


CHAPTER VIII 

WHAT WAS LEARNT AT VANNES 

Two nights later, in the dark and the cold, they drove into 
Vannes — Valentine, Roland and the Comte de Brenconrt — 
having left Mme de la Vergne at Hennebont as they passed 
through, to tend her son. All thought of raising in Finist^re 
a force large enough for rescue had been abandoned. 
Indeed they could never have got together enough men to 
assault Vannes, held as it now was, and the mere attempt 
might be extremely prejudicial to M. de Trelan. Since 
Finistere had capitulated, it might indeed be the very con- 
summation at which the First Consul was aiming, in order to 
have a good pretext for disposing of Finistere’s leader, now 
that he had him in his hands. It was better to hurry to 
Vannes and trust to organising a rescue by means of some 
of Cadoudal's Chouans. 

So M. de Brencourt had counselled when, the evening of 
Roland's arrival, he had offered Valentine such assistance 
as a man still sick could give. That she could accept it 
as she had done, and could show herself willing, in this 
terrible hour, to rely whole-heartedly upon him, was balm to 
his scarified pride. But indeed, in contemplating her des- 
pair, he forgot, at moments, his reception by her husband. 
If Artus de Brencourt had never arrived at seeing his own 
past conduct in quite the same light as a dispassionate 
observer would have done, there was one episode on which 
he could not reflect without tingling shame and horror— 
that frenzied vigil in which he had come near to slaying 
in Valentine's presence the man she loved. He had indeed 
recognised for months past that he had been practically 
out of his senses at the time — perhaps all the time since his 
return from Mirabel. ... Not indeed that this knowledge 
had helped him much that night at Vannes, in the struggle 
he had had to bring himself to render a great service to the 
man he had so deeply injured — apprehensive as he was 

381 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


382 

lest he should seem to be trying to make reparation, yet 
forced to do the service in person for lack of a trustworthy 
messenger. Well, it was certain that the Due de Trelan had 
not suspected him of that motive, when he had flung back 
in his face the warning which the Comte had only been 
driven to bring by the instinctive feeling that, despite 
the past, he could not let his former leader go to his death 
in such a shocking fashion. But the Due had gone . . . 
and just because of the past. 

There was no difficulty in obtaining news of " M. de 
Kersaint at Vannes. The place was ringing with it — 
and it was stunning. He had been summarily tried the 
day before by a military court, and sentenced to death. 
The pretext was that he was an emigre a rebel taken in arms 
who had never meant to surrender. He was to have been 
shot that same afternoon, but at twelve o'clock had come 
a courier with orders for a respite and for his immediate 
transference to Paris. And, in half an hour from the 
arrival of the despatch, he had been taken away in a 
travelling-carriage under a strong escort. That was 
yesterday. 

So much the Comte de Brencourt, quitting the convey- 
ance, easily gathered before they got to the Hotel de 
I’Epee. He had to tell Valentine that her husband was 
gone, but he suppressed the fact that, had he not been 
removed, she would not have seen him alive ; and hoped 
she would not hear it. The lamp that ht the interior of 
the carriage showed him, when he had finished his brief 
recital, the tragic face of the woman he loved, on whom, 
as if she had not known enough sorrow, this, too, was come. 
But she did not weep nor blench ; she said, “ Then we must 
follow to Paris to-morrow morning," and he assented. 
It would take them between three and four days. 

They rattled through the dark and tortuous streets and 
drew up at the hotel. Valentine put down her thick veil 
and Roland assisted her to alight. Just inside the door 
a large man was standing waiting — Georges Camain in 
person. He came forward with an air of profound defer- 
ence. 

" I have ventured to order a private room to be put at 
your disposal, Madame," he said, " and if you will allow 
me, I will attend you there. I have a message for you." 


WHAT WAS LEARNT AT VANNES 383 

** You have seen him then ? she breathed. And 
Camain bent his head in assent. 

I will wait upon you afterwards,*' murmured the 
Comte in her ear. Since the Deputy had not recognised 
him there was no point in giving him a further opportunity. 
But Roland, obeying his gesture, followed Mme de Trelan ; 
yet after all, when the room was reached, remained outside 
the door. So the ex-administrator of Mirabel and the 
ex-concierge were once more alone together. 

The moment that she was inside Valentine threw back 
her veil and turned to him. There was no need to utter 
her question. 

I succeeded in seeing M. de Trelan for three minutes 
yesterday,*’ said the Deputy gravely. It was between 
noon and half-past, when he left for Paris. I had been 
trying in vain all morning to do so. And then, Madame, 
the interview took place on the stairs as they were conduct- 
ing him to the carriage, so that it was not very satisfactory.” 

” But at least you saw him ! ” said Valentine, and the 
emotion she was holding in check showed itself hungrily 
for a moment. ” O, if only I had been in your place ! ** 

Indeed, I only wish you had, Madame,** returned 
Camain gently. 

” And you found him ? ** 

“ Quite well, Madame, and perfectly composed, though 
I think the respite was a great surprise to him. You know, 
I expect,” he went on, looking away for a second, ” that 
the iniquitous sentence was to have been carried out 
yesterday afternoon ? — Of course,” he added hastily, 
for her face told him that she had not known, ” this respite 
has changed aU that. ... As I say, we had only a moment 
or two, and the letter which I understand M. le Due would 
have written to you, had this change not occurred, he had 
not yet begun, so in that moment on the stairs he scribbled a 
line on a page from my pocketbook, which he did me the 
honour to commit to me, and I was to explain why it was 
so short. I was also charged to ask you to convey to a 
certain person who had brought a warning his profound 
regret for the way he had received it, and to his aides-de- 
camp an assurance that they were not to blame themselves 
in any way for what happened at Hennebont ; that since 
his arrest was inevitable he wished it to take place without 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


384 

their knowledge, and that he was only grieved to hear that 
in the end it had not done so. . . . Here is M. de Trdlan’s 
note, Madame.'" 

He put a tiny piece of paper in her hand, and, clearing 
his throat, walked away to the fireplace. 

Valentine opened the little tom-off twist. It contained 
only one word, and Gaston's initials. The word was 

Always/’ 

She pressed it to her lips. For a moment she seemed to 
feel his arms about her. Ah, never again, perhaps. . . . 
She murmured some words of thanks. The Deputy turned 
roimd. 

“ I wish to God I could have done more," he said, 
surreptitiously pocketing his handkerchief. " It is abomin- 
able — beyond words — this affair ! And to think that it 
was brought about . . ." he checked himself and looked 
at her strangely, but she did not seem to notice anything, 
and he went on, " Now, alas, I can do nothing further. 
I have no influence with the present Government. I must 
pursue my journey to Lorient." 

" If you had done nothing but bring me this," rephed 
Valentine, rousing herself, " a world of thanks would be no 
pa5nnent. But you have shown me besides. Monsieur 
Camain, the treasure of a kind and generous heart." 

" As long as you live, Duchesse," said the bricklayer's 
son, bending over the hand she gave him, " you will not 
lack that offering. It is your own heart that calls it 
out. . . ." 

A little later the three travellers had made some pretence 
of eating the meal which had been brought up to them, 
and then, seeing that the two men were restless, Valentine 
b^ged them not to consider her but to leave her if they 
wished ; and they, thinking on their side that she perhaps 
desired to be alone, obeyed. 

Valentine did desire to be alone, but it was no solace. It 
seemed to her that she had touched the lowest depths of 
human despair. She had never dreamt that Gaston would 
be gone from Vannes. The word he had sent her was warm 
ki her bosom, but that was not he. She felt that it was 
only the prospect of seeing him at the end of them, even 
though it must be as a captive, which had kept life in her 


WHAT WAS LEARNT AT VANNES 385 

these two dreadful days. And what had the Deputy said 
— that if the sursis had not come . . . O no, no, that was 
not possible ! She would not look at it. . . . But it was 
true that he was far away, alone, in the hands of his 
enemies. It was an effort to keep herself from calling his 
name aloud. 

She sat in a chair by the fire, the wind howling outside, 
the tears dripping through her fingers, and did not hear the 
door open. Roland stood on the threshold again, looking 
at her with a great compassion and understanding in his 
young eyes — for if his heart was broken what must hers 
be ? And half impulsively, half timidly, he went across 
the little room and knelt down by her. 

Madame, dear Madame ! ” 

Still weeping, she put out her hand to him blindly, and 
he kissed it, kissed her tears on it. And then she turned 
whoUy to him, and as he, kneeling there, took her tenderly 
and reverently into his arms, she shook with sobbing on 
his shoulder. It was really the first time that she had 
broken down since the arrest. Except that he felt he must 
comfort her — though he knew not by what means, for what 
means were there ? — the boy would have liked to sob too. 

He said something, and through her misery she thought. 

His voice is getting like Gaston’s. There will be some- 
thing of Gaston left in the world after aU.” 

It was at that moment that the impulse to tell him 
came to her overwhelmingly. She was so lonely ; it would 
comfort her — if she could keep from thinking of Mme de 
Celigny. He ought to know now, too. 

She mastered her sobs after a while, lifted her head 
from the boy’s shoulder, dried her eyes and leant back in 
her chair. 

“ Stay there, Roland, if you wiU,” she said, and he sat 
on the floor beside her chair, silently looking into the fire. 
What he saw there was always the same — the inn parlour 
at Hennebont ; sometimes with his leader sitting there, 
as he had last seen him when he went out to the others 
on that thrice accursed errand of his own making, some- 
times disordered and sickeningly empty, as it had appeared 
at his return. . . . 

Valentine contemplated his face, quite h^gard in the 
firelight for all its youth, and the tragedy in his eyes. 


386 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Roland/* she said, putting her hand on his arm, ** I 
want to tell you something. The Due sent a message to 
you and the others through M. Camain. You were not, 
he said, to distress yourself about what happened at 
Hennebont, for as his arrest had to come he particularly 
wished it should take place as quickly as possible, before 
you could return. He knew quite well, you see, what you 
would all have done — ^what you did, alas — and he would 
not have you killed to no end.’* 

Roland turned that tragic gaze upon her. ** In other 
words, M. le Due got himself taken to save us. ... / wish 
I were dead ! ” 

The tears were in his voice, not in his eyes, which were 
quite dry. He turned them on the fire again. 

Do you then love him so much ? ” asked Valentine 
softly. 

Roland gave her one look ; he did not answer in words. 

“ O my child, my child ! ’* said Mme de Trelan. Her 
beautiful and expressive voice held a world of meanings, 
but Roland was back in the coals and the inn parlour. He 
remembered they had not laid the four covers when he 
went out of the room ; there were only three — or was it 
two ? ... If he had stayed, he could have died there at 
his feet before they took him. 

" Roland,” said the Duchesse*s voice again, ” I want to 
tell you something else. I did not mean to do so yet . . . 
but I feel I must.” She made a little pause. You do not 
remember your mother, I think ? ” 

He shook his head. 

” A long time ago, Roland . . . she and the Due met 
. . . and he loved her ” 

The boy turned, startled, from his contemplation of the 
fire. 

** — ^Too well,** finished Valentine, with a long breath. 

He went white, then scarlet ; then white again. 
” Madame — what do you mean ? — I don’t understand. 
... You cannot mean ” 

Unconsciously she was pressing her wet handkerchief 
into a ball. “ M. de Trelan is your father, Roland.** 


CHAPTER IX 

THE RUBIES OF MIRABEL 

. 

** You really wish to do this, Madame ? ” asked Suzon Tes- 
sier, looking at the piece of embroidery she had just laid 
before the Duchesse. 

I must do something, Suzon, to pass the time till I 
start for the Temple. I cannot go out ; Paris hurts me. 
And, sewing once more in this room, I shall feel I am back 
in the old days.'* 

“ I only wish you were ! " thought Suzon as she left the 
room — a wish Valentine would never have echoed. Though 
these days were nothing but linked hours of anguish and 
suspense, she would not have changed. Heaven lay 
between that time and this. 

The day before yesterday she had arrived with her escort 
in this new, gay, animated Paris which hurt her so — the 
Paris which, exhilarated by a slight frost, under a cheerful 
winter sky, seemed to have drunk in a new lease of life 
with its revivifying change of government. It was a fresh 
world to Valentine — and a cruel. So when, after one night 
at a hotel, she had sought out Suzon to see how she fared, 
that faithful soul had refused to let her face again the 
curious looks of the hostelry. Since there was no danger 
to Mme Tessier in housing her now — and Valentine had 
learnt long since that the threatened Mirabel enquiry had 
never come to anything — she let herself be persuaded 
without much difficulty, and she and Roland were staying 
in the Rue de Seine. M. de Brencourt was lodging at an 
obscure little hotel garni in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. 
Mme de Troian had hardly seen him since their arrival ; he 
was too deeply occupied. For the whole weight of Royahst 
influence in Paris was at work to procure the release of 

M. de Kersaint " from the piison of the Temple, where 
he was in close confinement awaiting the First Consul’s 

387 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


388 

pleasure. He was still under the sentence of death passed 
on him at Vannes, and aU attempts, based on the disgraceful 
means taken for his capture, to get that sentence removed, 
or even commuted, had so far been vain, though Berthier, 
the Minister of War, was an officer of the ancien regime, 
and Lebrun, the Third Consul, actually in relations with 
the Royahst party. Protests and clamour having proved 
unavailing, there remained therefore nothing, if the prisoner 
was to be saved, but to carry him off. 

And this was by no means a hopeless enterprise, for in 
Paris there existed a whole subterranean population of 
Chouans and emigres, of conspirators and dubious char- 
acters. The heads of the secret Royalist agency, the 
Chevaher de Coigny and the Baron Hyde de Neuville, 
knew well where to put their hands on suitable instru- 
ments. Plans were in fact already well forward for a very 
promising scheme, to be put into force the following evening. 
There would arrive at the prison of the Temple a carefully 
forged order for M. de Trelan's transference to some other 
place of confinement ; it would be brought by an officer, 
and there would be a carriage and a considerable escort — 
enough to impose on any jmlor in the world. And, once 
they had the captive out, they would make for the coast, 
along the road to which relays would be in waiting. 

All this Valentine knew, and it had, till an hour or so 
ago, been the one thing which filled her mind. But the 
arrival of the order to see her husband, which after re- 
iterated attempts had been procured for her, absorbed it 
now. The order was for three o’clock that afternoon. 

There was more colom on Mme de Trelan’s face to-day 
than at Vannes — ^more colour and more signs of strain. And 
the sewing she had asked for was something of a pretence 
— as much a pretence, really, as was Roland’s book, now 
upside down on his knee where he sat on the window-seat, 
his chin on his hand, gazing immovably out of the 
window. She put down her needle and gazed at him in 
her turn. 

How like his profile was to Gaston’s — ^and how unlike ! 
Was she sorry that she had told him ? It had changed 
him ; between that news and the catastrophe of Hennebont 
he seemed a boy no longer. For a nature so open as his 
he had said extraordinarily little, but she had divined 


THE RUBIES OF MIRABEL 


389 

easily enough the tides of feeling that had met — ^v^ere 
meeting still — in his young heart : the shock of knowing 
that he had no right to the name he bore (though since 
he had been so carefully recognised by the late M. de 
Celigny the world need never know that) the shock to his 
thoughts of the mother of whom, perhaps mercifully, he 
had no memory. On the other hand there was the fervour 
of his worship for M. de Trelan, which lent so much reality 
and poignancy to his frustrated desire to have died to 
save him. . . . She did not feel sure that she had not been 
selfish in the matter ; she had even said so, later on, that 
dark evening at Vannes. But when he had cried bewil- 
dered, “ How can you be so good to me, Madame ? You 
ought to hate me ! ” she had answered that he must know 
she loved him and was leaning on him then, or she would 
never have told him. "But I think you ought to know," 
she had ended, " in case he . . ." 

Before she got further Roland had come back from the 
mantelpiece, where his head lay buried in his arms, and 
was at her feet, kissing the hands which were gripping 
each other in the effort to finish that sentence. And he 
said, in a smothered voice, " If it is dishonour ... I do not 
feel dishonoured. — But I cannot grasp it yet ; it seems 
too bhnding ..." 

Valentine remembered all this, looking at him now after 
six days. 

" Roland, my child," she said suddenly, " I want to con- 
sult you about something. If to-morrow night's scheme 
should fail " 

The young man turned his head at once. " Oh, it will 
not fail,' he asserted. " But I wish — O, how I wish — that 
I were in it ! " 

For, there being secret communication between the 
Royahst agency and the Temple, the prisoner had contrived 
to express a strong desire that the Vicomte de Cihgny 
should take no active part in the plan of rescue. 

" Poor boy, I know you do ! But, Roland, I also have 
to be inactive. Yet I have a scheme of my own, in case 
the other fails ... You know the Trelan rubies ? We 
had designed them, M. de Trelan and I, for Marthe on your 
wedding day. Now I have the thought of giving — of offer- 
ing — them to someone else ... as a price." 


390 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


To whom ? " asked Roland, leaning forward as the 
Duchesse unclasped them from under her dress. 

To Mme Bonaparte.” 

Roland, a httle startled, considered. “ Would it be of 
any use ? ” 

” She is said to be rapacious for jewels — and of Royalist 
leanings.” 

” But what could she do ? ” 

” Use her influence with her husband. What do you 
think of it, Roland ? ” 

The young man on the window seat reflected. “You 
should consult M. Hyde de Neuville, Madame, not me. I 

know nothing of Mme Bonaparte. But ” He stopped 

and coloured a little. 

“ What, Roland ? ” 

“ Forgive me, Madame, but would the Due approve of 
such a step ? ” 

Her own colour faded a little as she met his eyes. And 
then, with courage, she answered, “No, Roland, I am 
afraid he might not. He is, as you know . . . very proud. 
But it is not as if he personally would have a hand in it. 
A wife's mortal anxiety will excuse anything. I should go 
as one woman — as one wife — to another ... an inde- 
pendent step.” 

“ Shall you tell M. de Trelan of it this afternoon ? ” 
asked Roland, with his eyes on the floor. 

Valentine did not answer for a moment. “ But in that 
case I could not say truthfully that he knew nothing of it 
— which I should wish to be able to say. Advise me, 
Roland ! ” 

“ O Madame, how can I presume to advise you in a 
matter that concerns only you and him. You know so 
much better what he would wish than I do ! ” 

And Valentine sat silent, looking at him, her face drawn, 
the red rivulet of fire across her hands. 

“ Roland, what you really mean is that I know what he 
would not wish ! ” 

“ Yes, Madame,” answered the boy in a very low 
voice. 

Valentine caught her imderlip. “You have your father 
in you, there is no doubt,” she thought to herself, and as 
she bent over the stones a tear fell on to the possible price of 


THE RUBIES OF MIRABEL 


39 ^ 

blood. For the worst of it was that she knew Roland was 
right. 

She lifted her head again. “ Then I shall speak of it 
to him — ask his permission. . . . And I think, Roland, 
that I will go and prepare now. It is very early to start, 
but it is a long way to the Temple, and we could walk part 
of it. It is so hard to sit still.” 

As she came downstairs again, dressed for the street, she 
was thinking of the man who had put the rubies into her 
hands that strange day at Mirabel. Ah, that the Abbe 
Chassin were here now ! he who had always been at hand 
in difficulties, and who now, at the most critical time of all, 
was over the sea. But even he, as she knew, could do no 
more than was being done. 

In the parlour she found M. de Brencourt — the first time 
she had seen him that day. 

You are setting out already, Madame ? ” he asked, 
bending over her hand. She told him why, thinking how 
worn and iU he looked, and how possessed (as indeed he 
was) by a spirit of restless energy. 

** I would beg leave to escort you part of the way,” he 
said, “ but having missed Hyde de NeuviUe at his lodging, 
and hearing he had something of importance to say to me 
and was coming here, I must await him. Roland, I suppose, 
accompanies you ? ” 

” Yes — but he will not be able to see M. de Trelan, I am 
afraid. Is there any message you wish conveyed about 
to-morrow night ? ” 

M. de Brencourt shook his head. ” Communications 
of that kind, Madame, go by their own channel. Besides, 
there is nothing fresh to say. The Due knows the attempt 
is to be made ; his part is merely passive.” 

She said nothing for a moment. Then, flooding up 
from the depths, came the thing she had not yet allowed to 
escape her. ” O, Monsieur de Brencourt, if only he had 
listened to you ! ” 

The Comte shook his head. ” No, Madame, say rather. 
If only the warning had come from other lips ! I was the 
one man in the world who should not have carried it. 
. . . Duchesse, we cannot put off our past so easily ; it 
cHngs, like the shirt of fable, and poisons everything. . . . 
You may tell the Due, if you will, that I accept his apology 


392 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


in the same spirit in which he sent it. I cannot blame him 
for disbelieving my veracity — ^however much, being only 
human, I resent it. But it was inevitable ; and that he 
is where he is now is Nemesis — ^the Nemesis I have drawn 
down on both of us.” 

She could find no words before the sadness of his tone. 
He opened the door for her. 

( 2 ) 

When he had shut the door behind Mme de Trelan the 
Comte turned and threw himself down in a chair, his chin 
on his breast, staring into the fire. His brain was weary, 
for he had been up most of the night. He could not 
forget (even if Valentine did, as he sometimes suspected) 
that the Due de Trelan was not only a prisoner but a con- 
demned prisoner — ^not a man awaiting trial, but one already 
under sentence of death — and that his position was very 
precarious. Any hour might conceivably bring the tidings 
that the sentence had been carried out on him ; for his 
own part he wished the rescue had been fixed for that 
evening, but it had not proved possible to have every thread 
in place so soon. 

M. de Brencourt’s whole soul was so set on getting Gaston 
de Trelan out of the mortal peril in which he stood, that he 
did not analyse his motives over closely. He had entered 
on the attempt for Valentine's sake — and a little, too, for 
the sake of his own self-respect. And the Due had sent a 
message of regret ; from him of all men that was no empty 
form of words. Yet Artus de Brencourt was under the 
impression that he cared very little about de Trelan's fate 
in itself. But it is hard to know one's own heart. 

He went on staring into the coals. He wished he did 
not keep seeing that figure by the dolmen in the forest 
waiting with folded arms to receive his fire. It was so very 
possible ... He shivered. ” How much better it would 
be if I could take his place ! ” 

A knock, and the expected visitor was shown in, and 
the Comte roused himself. Hyde de Neuville, the new- 
comer, was surprisingly young for the position he occupied 
— only three and twenty in fact — ^good-looking, alert, 
intelligent, well-dressed, a man of good family accustomed 
to the best society, and, in some of his activities, to the 


THE RUBIES OF MIRABEL 


393 


worst. He had some astonishingly audacious exploits to 
his name. When he wrote letters — as to M. Chassin — ^he 
signed himself “ Paul Berry.'' 

“ I had gone to see Bertin," explained the young man, 
coming over to the fire. “ I was fearing a hitch about the 
escort. But it is all right. The two dozen men he had 
laid his hand on are perfectly rehable, and I am now quite 
satisfied. Uniforms, indeed, are more difficult to procure 
than bodies to put them on. But we shall manage." 

“You have no doubts about the forged order ? " 

“ Not the slightest. And none of the Temple officials 
will be surprised, I think, if M. de Tr£an is transferred, 
the circumstances of his capture having been so ex- 
ceptional." 

“ So damnable ! " interpolated the Comte. 

'‘^But I really wanted to speak to you about something 
quite difierent," went on the young conspirator. “ Late 
last night I had a communication from my compatriot 
Bourgoing, who is in relations with Talleyrand. It appears 
Talleyrand thinks that, partly owing to the outcry which 
has been made about this abominable violation of M. de 
Trelan's safe-conduct, Bonaparte would, after all, be 
rather glad to get out of going to the extremity to which 
he most undoubtedly meant to go when he sent those 
infamous orders to Brune." 

De Brencourt stared at him rather incredulously. “ I 
can hardly befieve that of the First Consul. He is entirely 
without scruples, and very unlikely to be frightened into 
turning back once he has started on a course, however black 
that course may be. He cannot be magnanimous now ; 
it is too late. It would only look like weakness." 

“ I know that. But Bonaparte, besides getting rid 
of the odium this affair is raising in certain quarters in 
Paris, would demand some kind of quid pro quo — that the 
Due should personally ask for his fife, and, I suppose, give 
an undertaking never to conspire against him. Talleyrand 
is almost convinced that in such a case he would be merciful 
— ^in fact that he would secretly be relieved. He could 
make at any rate some pretence of magnanimity ; it might 
affect wavering supporters. But he has gone too far to set 
the Due de Trelan free of his own motion ; it would look 
too much hke weakness, as you say. On the other hand 


394 the yellow POPPY 

if it were publicly known that the Due had asked for 
mercy ** 

“ I fear, in that case, that the First Consul will not 
obtain the relief which he desires,*' observed M. de Bren- 
court drily. “ Who that had had any acquaintance with 
him could imagine that the Due de Trelan would, for any 
consideration, stoop to sue from Bonaparte — and by so 
doing serve Bonaparte’s purpose too ! . . . I should 
scarcely hke even to propose such an idea to him. — But of 
course it would be only proper to inform him — as I expect 
you have already done ? ” 

Hyde de Neuville looked thoughtful. He nodded. “ My 
note must have reached him, by the usual channel, three 
or four hours ago. — By the way, has the Duchesse started 
for the Temple ? I think her interview was for three 
o’clock, was it not ? I was wondering whether the ease 
with which, in the end, the order was obtained, was due 
to the idea that she might work on her husband if she 
knew.” 

” Then I am thankful that she does not know,” replied 
the Comte rather hoarsely. 

“You mean that it would be of no use ? Well, we must 
then stake everything on to-morrow night’s affair, which 
promises excellently.” He brought out a paper. “ Now, 
who of these do you think had best drive the carriage, and 
who play the officer commanding the escort ? And I have 
not yet quite arranged about all the further relays.” 

(3) 

At that very moment Valentine, on Roland’s arm, had 
just emerged from the Rue du Roule into the Rue Saint- 
Honore, whence they intended to take a fiacre to the Temple. 
In that animated and busy street Roland was looking round 
for a carriage when he suddenly exclaimed, 

“ See, Madame, what is coming. Is it — it must be the 
First Consul himself ! ” 

Valentine followed his eyes. From the direction of the 
Tuileries was approaching, at a fast trot, a carriage with 
an escort of mounted grenadiers. It came onwards in a 
clatter of hoofs, and on its passage a roar of cheers went up 
and hats were waved. V^entine felt a momentary dizzi- 
ness, and held Roland’s arm tightly. She was about 


THE RUBIES OF MIRABEL 


395 


to see the master of France, the great general, the great 
administrator, the genius with a marvellous brain, an 
indomitable will, and a petty soul — the man who had her 
husband’s life in his hand, to keep or to throw away. But 
when the carriage was almost abreast she involuntarily 
dropped Roland’s arm and drew herself up, the pride of a 
long line firing her blood. 

And she saw, passing quickly, not, as she had expected, 
a young hero in uniform, but, in a grey civilian overcoat, 
the wide revers crossed closely over his chest, a little man 
whose hollow temples and cheeks, and paUid yellowish 
complexion, made him look at least ten years older than his 
thirty years. Sombre and preoccupied, his head sunk on 
his breast, he appeared almost indifferent to the plaudits 
of the crowd, but chance, or something in her attitude, drew 
his eyes in Valentine's direction, and for one brief second 
the Duchesse de Trelan sustained — and returned — the 
singular and burning gaze of Napoleon Bonaparte. Then 
he was gone. 

Trembling a httle, Mme de Trelan took the young man’s 
arm again. She could not shake off the feeling that the 
First Consul knew who she was, and that it was the question 
of the Due de Trelan’s fate which was absorbing his thoughts 
just then. And he did not look as if he could be turned 
from his purpose by any woman. . . . 

“ Let us get a carriage and go quickly, Roland,” she said 
in a faint voice. 

The slow horse clanked dully along the interminable Rue 
du Temple, tiU at last Valentine and Roland found them- 
selves standing before the columned entrance to the 
Palace of the Temple, once the habitation of the Comte 
d’ Artois and, before him, of other princes of the blood, 
such as Conti of amorous memory. And soon, formalities 
over, they were walking, with a soldier as guide, across the 
great courtyard with its encircling row of leafless trees, 
towards the low fa9ade. Except that this was day, and 
not night, they saw just what the Royal Family had seen 
when they were brought there captives on the 13th of 
August, 1792, for the palace itself had not changed its 
external aspect since, and the prison itself, the great 
Tower, stood at some distance behind. Following their 
guide they went through the building, emerging finally 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


396 

on the flight of steps which led down from what had been 
the great salon to the palace garden, and saw then, at the 
end of the deserted pleasances, the great wall built round 
the Tower to isolate the royal captives, and over its bleak 
masonry the upper storeys and the pointed roof of the 
massive donjon of the Temple which was their goal. 

Valentine had heard of this waU of Palloy's at the time 
of its construction. It had served its purpose only too well 
then ; it looked — God help her ! — as if it would serve it weU 
now. Yet M. de Brencourt had escaped — ^but that was by 
bribery, and he had not been in solitary confinement. . . . 
Now they were at the guardhouse in the wall, were passed 
civilly and quietly through, and found themselves facing 
the fortress itself, grey, massive, foursquare, with its small 
satellite round tower at each angle. Every window in the 
main building, except those at the very top, was blinded 
by a sloping board-work, a tabatiere. And round it the 
encircling wall, supported on many buttresses, formed a 
complete square of desolation. In this were listlessly prom- 
enading a few prisoners. 

“ That is the entrance, Madame,’' said their guide, 
pointing to the left-hand of the two smaller towers on that 
side, The stairway runs up that tourelle ; they will 
take you up from the grefie there. I see old Bernard await- 
ing you, in fact.” 

And indeed, on the small semi-circular perron at the foot 
of the httle tower was already standing an old gaoler with a 
bunch of keys. 

” Madame de Trelan ? ” said this old man when they 
got there. ” We were expecting you. If you will show 
me the pass there is no need to go into the greffe. Thank 
you. Monsieur . . . Madame will be obliged to mount a 
good many steps, since M. de Trelan, as she probably knows, 
is in sohtary confinement, and therefore at the top of the 
Tower. I will go first ; there are wickets to unfasten.” 

The winding stairway of the turret was too narrow for 
Roland to give the Duchesse his arm. Light and gloom 
alternated with each other as they passed the sht-hke win- 
dows in the six-foot masonry. And every step they 
mounted seemed to drive the blood further from Valentine’s 
heart. How could Gaston ever be rescued, even by 
guile, from a place hke this ? And she, who had been 


THE RUBIES OF MIRABEL 


397 


twice in prison herself, and thought she knew all its bitter- 
ness, now found that she was tasting a cup incomparably 
sharper. 

She was so pale when they got to the top that Roland 
put his arm about her for a moment. 

“ Trying, the ascent, Madame,’' observed the melancholy 
gaoler. “ One hundred and twenty-two steps.” 

A couple of sentries with fixed bayonets stood before the 
thick, nail-studded door. The ” Marquis de Kersaint ” 
was well guarded indeed. 

” The young gentleman will stay outside,” observed 
Bernard. ” My orders, as you know, are only for the 
timily. There is a bench yonder. Monsieur.” 

Roland, his heart beating furiously, bent his head in 
•icquiescence, and when the gaoler had unlocked the door 
and the sentries had stood aside Valentine passed in alone. 


CHAPTER X 

THE LAST CONFLICT 

She had no time for thought of her surroundings. Gaston, 
warned by the opening of the door, was waiting just inside, 
and she was in his arms, strained to him, clinging to him, 
before ever it had finished closing behind her. 

O, haven where she had thought these last dreadful 
days never to rest again ! But no, how could God take it 
from her again so soon ? He was too good ! Just to be 
there once more, to feel Gaston's lips on hers, to hold him 
— the agony of suspense drugged, if not dead — ^nothing else 
mattered, not even that he was a prisoner. 

Beloved, your cheek is cold,” he murmured. ** Is it 
so cold in here ? — and if I hold you all the time will you be 
warm enough ? ” 

” I am not cold,” she answered in a whisper, ” but hold 
me . . . hold me . . .” And consciousness of everything 
but that hold drifted away. 

. . . Cold ? Perhaps he was cold — neglected ? What 
was this place like ? To see it, in its relation to him, she 
lifted her head from his breast, and was conscious for the 
first time of the small, high room in which she stood, of the 
window ten feet up in the wall, so that no view was possible, 
and the light came down from it very cheerlessly. On the 
ancient walls, blackened in places by the smoke of many a 
bygone torch, names were scrawled. She saw a pallet, a 
table and chair — and a stove, which was burning. 

Then she scrutinised him, with such eyes of anxiety for 
what she might discover in his appearance that Gaston 
smiled at it. 

” Do you expect to find, my darling, that ten days 
of captivity can have changed me ? ” he asked. ” I have 
everything I want — everything I can pay for, that is — 
except hberty for correspondence . . . and my personal 
liberty, bien entendu.” 


398 


THE LAST CONFLICT 


399 


Indeed he looked younger, less worn, than at her last 
sight of him. And his tone, assumed or natural, was so 
calm. But somehow that very fact made her a little 
uneasy. 

He took her hands again. ** Sit down, my heart. No, 
not on my solitary chair ; I cannot recommend it. The 
bed is better ; I can sit there too.'* 

She obeyed him. She did not like to think he slept on 
that ! 

“ This place makes me shudder, Gaston." 

" Dearest, after La Force and your other prison ! It 
seems to me, now that you are here, like a palace ! And 
you, what roof in Paris has the happiness of sheltering 
you ? " 

She told him. And then, holding his hand as he sat by her 
on the little bed, and turning round and round on his finger, 
for which it was now too loose, his emerald ring, she 
approached the subject so near her lips. 

“ Gaston, you spoke just now — ^not seriously, I know 
— of paying for your liberty. Suppose this plan for your 
rescue fails, which God forbid, but suppose it fails . . . 
could your liberty be bought ? " 

He looked at her so hard, so questioningly, that her 
hopes for the scheme sank lower still. 

“ I fear not," he said very ^avely. And then, after 
another pause, " What did you imagine could buy i^ my 
wife ? " 

And by his very intonation she knew that she would 
never, with his consent, kneel to Josephine Bonaparte. Yet 
she would not give up. 

" With the ruby necklace," she answered, and went on. 
But he soon stopped her. 

" Valentine, you cannot really be proposing that I should 
stoop to beg my life of Bonaparte ! " 

She winced, for the tone was almost hard, and hurt. 
" No, no," she interposed hastily, " not that you should ! 
But I, your wife, approaching Mme Bonaparte, a wife 
herself, that is a very different thing. For me to do so 
is a most natural step, and when I point out to her what 
surely her husband cannot realise, the infamy of the means 
by which he took you, the violation of your safe-conduct 


400 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


He had been staring at the floor, his mouth set. But 
again he broke in. ** The First Consul has had plenty of 
time to reflect on that, Valentine. Believe me, he knows 
what he is doing.*' 

O, the place was cold, after all, deadly cold ! And Gaston 
so inexorable 

And you will not let me '* she began once more 

unsteadily. 

“ A thousand times no ! I forbid it absolutely.’* 

Very low, Valentine said, “ And what of me ? Am I 
too to be sacrificed to the pride of your race ? Can I not 
plead for myself, Gaston, — ^not with Bonaparte indeed, 
but with you, with you ! ’* 

He turned, he caught her quickly in his arms. My 
darling, my very dear, don’t say that ! ” he exclaimed in a 
moved voice. “ Don’t say that ! It is not I indeed, nor 
pride ” 

But she retorted, half sobbing, ** Gaston, I almost think 
that if you were to be told you could have your life for the 
asking, you would not ask for it ! ” 

Mercifully she could not guess that the sudden closer 
tension of his arms about her told how her shot had 
gone home, nor that her head almost rested at that moment 
on Hyde de Neuville’s letter. As for Gaston himself, 
who knew how truly, indeed, she had unwittingly spoken, 
he dared not take up her challenge. So he said, as calmly 
as he could, “ My dearest, you are overwrought. And, 
Valentine, can you think that I should allow you to put 
yourself to a useless humihation, you whom I love more 
than my life ? For I do not think Mme Bonaparte would 
have any influence in the matter, and if she had, I dislike 
the idea of bribing her to use it, as much as you do, I am 
sure, in your heart. No, we will trust to that clever and 
audacious young man, Hyde de Neuville, with all the 
means he has at his disposal. To come and demand a 
prisoner with a forged order and a fictitious escort will be 
child’s play to him. And some day I will tell you the 
very good reason I have for not wishing my fife to be 
begged — ^by anyone. On the faith of a gentleman it is not 
merely pride. But for the present you must trust me.” 

The present. He could speak of it like that ! Then he 
really thought that there might be a future in which he 


THE LAST CONFLICT 


401 


would be a free man ? Did he, did he ? She looked hard 
at him, and suddenly out of the past shot the remembrance 
of that very different struggle which had ended their life 
at Mirabel. Then she had pleaded with him to do some- 
thing worthy of himself ; now . . . was it possible that she 
was urging him to consent to something unworthy ? If 
that were so, thank God that he was, as before, unmoved. 
And as she studied the fine, rather worn profile she reahsed, 
too, how much less stem were the lines of his mouth. He 
had asked a little while ago, in jest, if she thought his brief 
captivity had changed him. But it was true ; there was 
a deep change in him. The profound depression of those 
last days at La Vergne was gone. Why ? 

Gaston,” she said on an impulse, ” you are happier 
than when we parted.” 

He turned his head, looked down into her eyes, and 
smiled. ” You can guess why, my soul — you who know 
what was spared me. God was kind to me. The wine 
was poured, but I did not drink it. I never had to give up 
my sword ; I never did consent to disarmament. And 
Finistere is saved all the same. Have I not reason to be 
happier ? ” 

” And yet — O Gaston, Gaston, I must say it — if only 
you had hstened to M. de Brencourt’s warning ! ” 

He got up from the bed. ” M. de Brencourt, I trust, has 
received the message I sent by M. Camain ? ” 

” Yes,” said Vientine. ” He sent one back by me 
to-day ; that he accepted your apology. But he said — 
and it ^stressed me, Gaston — that he ought never to have 
brought the message himself. Your disbelief, he seemed 
to think, was his Nemesis.” 

” That is true,” said her husband a little coldly. ” To 
this hour I do not see how I could have believed in his 
good faith. But — I have been wanting to say this to you, 
my dearest — ^nothing could have made any difference. 
You think that if I had listened to his warning I should not 
be here to-day, nor those poor boys lying at Hennebont. 
But as far as I am concerned it would have been just the 
same. I must have gone to Vannes to give up my sword, 
even were I sure that I was walking into a snare. For if, 
scenting a trap, I had not gone, what would have hap- 
pened ? Brune would have stoutly denied the intended 


402 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


treachery, I should have been branded as failing to redeem 
my pledge, and Finistere would have been invaded after 
all. Do you not see that even if I had believed de Brencourt 
I could have done no differently ? 

She looked up at him a moment, standing there with a 
prison wall for background. No, he could have done no 
differently, whatever a man with less strict a sense of 
honour might have done. 

** You are you 1 she said proudly. ** But I will point 
out that aspect to the Comte — for he has suffered, Gaston. 
. . . But, my darling, there is something else I want to 
ask you,*" She paused a moment. If you will not let 
me beg your life, and I ’* — she faltered a little — ** I accept 
your wishes . . . what is to happen if the plan for to-mor- 
row fails ? Will Bonaparte keep you in prison for years, 
perhaps ? ** 

And the human spirit has such strange recesses that it 
really seemed to her that by throwing out this suggestion 
in words she could make it real, avoid a worse. For at 

Vannes they had told her 

Gaston de Trelan went suddenly over to the stove, and 
held out his hands for a moment to its warmth. His back 
was towards her. Then, sitting down beside her on the 
bed again, he said lightly, “He is not likely to have the 
chance of doing that — unless he captures me a second time.** 
She saw that he was evading her. “Yes,** she broke in, 
seizing his arm, “ I know ; we have spoken about that. 
But the best plans sometimes fail. What then ? Gaston, 
as you love me . . . Gaston, answer me ! ** 

He looked down at the little hand gripping his arm, and 
after a moment put his other hand over it. “ My wife, 
can you not see that the First Consul, a soldier himself, 
would not incur the odium of an almost unparalleled piece 
of military treachery unless it were worth his while ? . . . 
My dear, there is no braver woman than you. I do you 
the honour, therefore, of telling you the truth. No, he 
will not keep me in prison. If I am not rescued I shall 
undoubtedly be shot ... as an — example.** 

She was answered. Her hand relaxed upon his arm, 
and he hastily slipped the arm itself about her as she 
fell away from him. But Valentine pulled herself still 
further away. 


THE LAST CONFLICT 


403 


“ Then I am going to disregard your wishes, Gaston ! 
You do not know what you are saying. I give you fair 
warning. I am going to Mme Bonaparte — to the First 
Consul himself ! You expect me to stand by and see 
you murdered when I might save you ! What is your 
pride — ^which you cannot deny — against your hfe . . . and 
Gaston, Gaston, against my love for you, which you treat 
so lightly ! ” 

He shpped to his knees and caught her hands to his 
breast. “ O, my more than dear, do not say that ! he 
implored. “ Is not your love for me aU the light I have 
in the world ? But at this hour there is something that 
calls more insistently even than love — something that, if it 
has to do with pride, is not hnked with personal pride. I 
mean — honour. And you could not gain me my hfe if 
you asked — I am sure of it — yet if you were to make the 
attempt ** 

But Valentine broke in with desperate logic. ** You can- 
not know that I should fail ! How could you ? You can- 
not be sure till it has been tried. And I shall try 1 Then 
you can talk of failure ! 

Gaston knelt there as pale as she. Surely, surely, 
he could find some way to stay her without reveahng the 
cruel knowledge he had — that only he himself could ever be 
successful in an entreaty which even she could not move 
him to make. 

Valentine, sooner than think of you on your knees to 
that man I would go on my own — if that were conceivable. 
But it is not conceivable — ^not if he had a pardon ready 
sealed in his hand, not if he held it out to me ! Think a 
moment, heart of my heart, and face it ! WTien did any 
captured Breton or Vendean, even the humblest peasant, 
ever ask for mercy ? Thousands of them have laid down 
their lives readily in the cause they fought for, and hundreds 
of gentlemen, too. And would you have me — through 
your mouth or my own it matters little — ^would you have 
me, a leader, be the first in either of those lists to play the 
recreant ? Was it for that you wrought and gave me 
that scarf there — that when the crucial moment came I 
should deal the cause it represents such a stab in the back as 
my humiliation would be ? Think of our enemies saying, 
' At the last moment the Due de Troian’s heart failed him. 


404 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


and he humbly besought the First Consul for his life/ How 
would that sound in the streets of Paris next week . . . 
and when the King comes back ? 

Valentine flinched. Her Hps were grey. Indeed she 
did not like the sound of it. 

“ But, Gaston,'" she said, those lips quivering, '' for the 
cause you have done more than enough. You have done 
everything that mortal man could do, you, the last in 
arms — more than Cadoudal, who was so strong — ^more than 
all the rest ! ” 

“ And all in vain," he finished sadly. 

“ No devotion is in vain ! " 

He smiled suddenly, the smile, somehow, of a young 
man. " My darling, that is what I have been trying to say. 
There are two sides to being made an ‘ example ' of." 

But at that she gave a sharp exclamation and put her 
hands over her eyes. 

Her husband's face became still more drawn. ** Valen- 
tine," he said tenderly but very gravely, " have you 
forgotten the night I came, when the tide of fortune was 
ebbing, to La Vergne. It was your name day ; not three 
weeks have passed since then. That night, my very dear, 
my heart of hearts, my fleur-de-lys, you understood — 
wonderfully — and you gave me leave to die ! " 

" But not like this — not Uke this ! " she cried distractedly. 
" O blessed saints, help me ! Why did I ever say that ! 
I meant — ^in the fighting . . . and I thought the need for 
it was past with the surrender. O Gaston, Gaston, you 
are killing me I " 

Indeed it seemed like it. Her head went down to her 
very knees, and the wrenching sobs shook her from head to 
foot. The price was more than she could pay ! He was 
now, through and through, what once she would almost 
have given her soul to see him. But the cost, the cost of 
it ! . . . She saw, dimly, horribly, what he meant — the 
damage his death would do to Bonaparte's reputation. It 
broke her, strong as she was. And, no longer rebellious 
but purely suppliant, she threw herself on his neck as he 
knelt there beside the little prison bed, pleaded with him, 
besought him, implored him — and all in vain. 

It almost broke Gaston too, since for him there was also 
the strain of keeping from her any suspicion of what he 


THE LAST CONFLICT 


405 


knew about Bonaparte’s real desire, but his man’s, his 
soldier’s will held firm against the lover’s. Extravagant 
perhaps, even fanatical, but none could say ignoble, his 
intention was fixed. If the attempt at rescue failed, if 
the First Consul meant to consummate his treachery, he 
must do it. There was no more to say. 

In the end Valentine was, if not acquiescent, at least 
vanquished. No, she would not go to Mme Bonaparte ; 
she gave him her word. No, she would not even lend 
the countenance of her name to any of the protests now 
being made in certain quarters. Yes, she would even 
acknowledge that, theoretically, he was right. . . . Beaten 
and shivering, she half lay in his arms, and composure, the 
composure of exhaustion, began to come back to them 
both after the combat, and for a little while they were able 
to talk of other things, far away and dear. . . . 

A warning knock came at the door. 

** Good God ! ” exclaimed Gaston, “ is the time nearly up, 
then ? And we have spent so much of it in . . . conflict ! ” 

He looked at her with eyes full of love and a very white 
smile on his hps. And all Valentine’s soul was in the 
gaze with which she met his in her answer : 

“ Forgive me for my foolishness ! It is over now. I 
would not have you otherwise than victor — for now I see 
you at your fuU stature. And I . . . who once pre- 
sumed to criticise you — I am at your feet . . . in worship.” 

Her voice died out of existence imder his sudden pas- 
sionate kisses. His own was shaking as he said between 
them, almost fiercely, You must not say that, Valentine, 
you must not say that ! O my dear, my dear, how can we 
part, how can I ” 

The knock came once more. He stopped abruptly, set 
his teeth, loosed the tension of his hold, and after a second 
or two stood up, quite steady and composed again, drawing 
her gently with him. 

” Who brought you here, my darling ? ” 

** Roland,” she answered. “ He is waiting out there all 
this while, poor boy. And, Gaston, he is heartbroken. 
He thinks they ought all to have been killed before they 
let you be taken. Not even the message you sent him at 
Vannes seems to comfort him.” 

Gaston sighed. ‘‘ Poor Roland ! And he is just out- 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


406 

side ? Cannot he come in for a moment ? Surely, Valen- 
tine, I am absolved now from my promise to de Cam^. 
I should like to tell him/* 

“ My heart, he knows, these seven days, I told him at 
Vannes. I had made no promise/* 

“ God bless you ! ** said her husband, raising her hand 
to his hps. 

Gaston, ask to see him,** she suggested. ** The pass 
was for one or more members of the family. Tell the gaoler 
that he is your son.** 

“You would allow that ? ** 

“ I should wish it. It is the only way to see him.** 

“ My saint ! ** He kissed her hand again. “ Very well. 
Old Bernard is an excellent soul ; he wiU not be particular 
to a minute or two. But do not go, my darling ! I want 
yours to be the last presence in this room to-day.** 

But Valentine shook her head with a httle smile. 

“ These are his moments. I will come back afterwards.** 
One long embrace and they separated as the door swung 
open. Outside could be heard the click of steel as the 
sentries crossed their bayonets over the aperture. But, 
before Valentine going out, they uncrossed for a second. 

“ I should like to see the Vicomte de C^ligny for a 
minute or two,** said Gaston to the gaoler. 

“ Only members of the family. Monseigneur,** returned 
the precise old man, shaking his head. “ I have very 
strict orders.’’ 

“ But since he is my son ! ** retorted M. de Troian, in the 
most natural tone possible. “ Come,” he went on, as the 
old man looked incredulous, “ you are sufficiently old- 
fashioned to call me Monseigneur, and yet you affect not 
to know that the son of a duke rarely bears the same title as 
his father. Besides, if you doubt me, go and look at him ! ** 
“ Well, well,” said old Bernard, “ if he is your son the 
order covers him, though his name is not on it. You swear 
that he is your son. Monsieur le Due ? ** 

“ Yes, I swear it,” answered Gaston. 

What a strange person and place to receive the first 
public avowal of his relationship to Roland ! He leant 
against the table and put his hand over his eyes, for indeed 
the victory he had won in the last hour was only less 


THE LAST CONFLICT 


407 


prostrating than a defeat. When he removed it, Roland 
was through the door, was on one knee before him, trying 
to seize his hand and kiss it, and half sobbing out the old 
appellation, “ Monsieur le Marquis I Monsieur le Marquis 1 ” 
Gaston stooped and raised him. Am I only that to 
you, Roland, my son, my son 1 

And, actually in his father’s arms, the warring tides of 
emotion in the boy’s breast were stilled. He hid his face 
there, trembling a little. But Gaston said never a word 
till he took his son’s head between his hands and lifted it. 
“ You are like your mother,” he said in a low voice, looking 
into his eyes. You may think of me as you like, Roland, 
but of her you must think as you have always done. The 
blame was mine, and mine alone.” And he kissed him. 

With his hero's kiss on his forehead, Roland was in no 
state to apportion blame between that hero in his mortal 
peril, and the mother whom he did not remember. He 
drew a long breath and said, ” If only I can be what your 
son ought to be, sir ! ” 

Gaston smiled rather sadly. ” Take a better example, my 
child. But there is one way in which you can — no, I think I 
have really no need to point it out to you. If I am shot, 
Mme de Troian 

Roland clutched his arm. ” Don’t use that word, sir — 
I cannot bear it I For it is our fault, all this — ^we failed 
you ! And we had hoped to die with you ! ” 

” But, my dear boy, that was just what I did not want 
— and you must allow your generi some say in the matter. 
That was why I hoped the business would be quickly over, 
and why I was so much distressed to hear from M. Camain 
what happened after I was gone. You have no further 
news of the others yet, I suppose ? ” 

Roland shook his head. ”But it was thought, when 
we passed through Hennebont, that Artamene would 
eventually recover, though he was too ill to know us. . . . 
Monsieur le Due, I have never understood why it happened 
just at that moment — your arrest ? ” 

” Because, directly after you left the room, Roland, I 
was recognised by a woman whom I had once known 
slightly. The comedy was that I failed to recognise her 
at the time — though I have realised since who she was — 
and that she had no idea, poor soul, of what she was bring- 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


408 

ing on me. But it made no difference ; they would have 
taken me at Auray, if not at Hennebont ; even if I had 
reached Vannes a free man I should not long have remained 
so. That came out very clearly at my — ^trial. So you see 
there is nothing to be distressed about.” 

But Roland thought otherwise. Had the arrest been 
attempted on the highroad there would have been a chance 
which there never had been in that trap of a room. He 
had a vision of a great fight in the open, in which they three 
^ould have laid down their fives indeed, and their leader 
spurred away, free. He sighed disconsolately. 

** Mme de Trelan spoke of going to Mme Bonaparte,” he 
remarked. 

” I would not sanction it,” said his father quietly. 
** Besides, it would be useless.” 

” You mean,” said Roland, biting his lips to keep back 
certain unmanly evidences of emotion, ” that you are 
sure the First Consul is absolutely determined to . . .” 

Gaston did not answer for a moment. Then he took a 
letter out of his coat. “No,” he said quietly, “ as it hap- 
pens that is just what I do not mean. On the contrary. 
For a person of his extreme decision he appears to be 
uncomfortable. Read that, Roland ; but ^st give me 
your word that you will not tell the Duchesse.” 

“ I give you my word, sir — as your son,” said Roland, 
throwing back his head. 

But as he read it some colour came back to his face. 

“ My God ! Then, Mon ” 

“ Mon pere, I hope you were going to say,” interposed 
M. de Trelan smiling, as he took the letter from his suddenly 
shaking hand and tore it across. “ No, my son, there are 
some things that one does not do, and one is, to play, in a 
situation such as mine, the enemy’s game. You see from 
that letter what — as far as any mortal can penetrate into 
his heart — the First Consul would like to happen — and 
therefore, quite plainly, it is just what shall not happen. 
Either he must release me of his own act, unconditionally — 
a step which is extremely improbable — or he must go on 
to the end. That end he will regret . . . for his own 
sake.” He opened the door of the stove, and threw in the 
paper. “ I have shown you that letter, Roland,” he went 
on, turning to him again, “ because you are a man now. 


THE LAST CONFLICT 


409 


but I have particularly kept the knowledge of what it says 
from the Duchesse ; still more must it be kept from her if I 
die. It would make it too hard for her . . . you under- 
stand ? I fear I have made it hard enough as it is . . . 
You can tell her, if you like, some day— years hence. 
And I want you to warn the Comte de Brencourt and 
M. Hyde de Neuville not to let her know on any account — 
if I die, that is. If I escape, it is of no consequence.” 

” If you escape ! ” cried Roland feverishly, “ but you 
shall escape ! That plan — if only I might take part in it ! 
But Mon — ^mon pere, I have been thinking out there . . . 
I am not so tall as you, but since I am like you a little 
(though I never knew it), if you would but get into my 

clothes now and go away with Mme de Trelan while I ” 

“ My dearest boy,” said Gaston, touched and laughing 
too, as he put his arm round his shoulders, that thousand- 
year-old device ! As if I could pass for a young man of 
twenty ! Alas, never again ! But I have every confidence 
in . . . the official scheme for to-morrow evening. Yet 

in case ” He slipped the emerald ring with the phoenix 

off his finger and put it on Roland’s. 

A quiver ran through the boy. He clasped the hand 
thus decorated to his breast as though it were wounded. 
“ Then you have not every confidence . . . O mon pere, 
take it back ! ” 

I will take it back when I am free,” repHed his father, 
smiling. A loan, you see. — Here is my patient Bernard.” 
He took him in his arms and kissed him on either cheek. 

Be happy with Marthe — she shall wear the rubies after all. 
And try to get your grandfather, some day, to think less 
hardly of me.” 

Roland, shaking with the sobs he was striving so hard 
to suppress, said almost inaudibly, “ But he does. I have 
had a letter. He is greatly distressed.” 

Then I have gained something by being sentenced to 
death,” thought Gaston to himself, with a rather grim 
amusement. ” You must go, my boy,” he said aloud. 
“ And God go with you, always ! ” 

He watched his son walk, blind with tears, to the door, 
and then made a sign to the gaoler. Give us one last 
moment, Bernard, for pity’s sake ! ” For, before the 
bayonets could cross themselves again, Valentine had 


410 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


slipped in, and come straight into his arms where he stood 
under that heartbreaking window. And Bernard com- 
passionately went out again and closed the door. 

** If the plan fails, Gaston, is this the last time ? ” (How 
could anyone who was so white speak so steadily ?) 

** No, no — they will certainly let me see you again.” 
His own voice was not quite steady. 

” You are sure ? I — a woman does not know about 
these things.” 

” Yes, I am sure of it. If it comes to that, I shall have 
you in my arms once again, my dearest, dearest heart ! ” 
Yet he held her now as if that time had come. ** More- 
over, I do not beheve the plan will fail. But, my 
darling, I have not been torturing you imnecessarily, 
in speaking of . . . the other alternative. It is only 
because, as God has given us at the end of summer to be 
one in life, I want you to understand that to die now 
would be to me no defeat or loss — to understand so that 
we might still be one . . . even if we had to part. . . .” 

” Death could never take you from me,” she answered. 


CHAPTER Xf 

GASTON GIVES UP THE YELLOW POPPY 


It was about six o'clock the next morning that old Bernard, 
who had just finished dressing himself, looked out of the 
window of the little ground-floor room in the Palace of the 
Temple where he slept — for most of the personnel of the 
prison were housed there, and he indeed, a former servant 
of the Prince de Conti, had slept there for more years 
than he could count. The pale, reluctant winter dawn 
was on the courtyard and its shivering trees. It would be 
a chilly transit to his duties in the Tower. 

As he was turning away, blowing on his fingers, he 
heard unusual sounds in the courtyard, and, after another 
glance through the window, he went out on to the perron 
and stood there in some astonishment. 

A closed carriage — a berline — ^had just drawn in under 
the entrance and was coming to a standstill in the middle 
of the court. Immediately behind, with a great jangle of 
bits and trappings, came riding two and two a score or so 
of hussars. What on earth could this portend, at so early 
an hour ? It must be something official, however, since the 
guard at the entry had admitted the cort^e. 

Even as Bernard stood there he heard himself hailed, and 
saw the sergeant of the guard running towards him and 
trying to attract his attention. A httle behind him rode 
an officer. 

Hola, Bernard ! " called out the sergeant. You are 
just the man I want. Take M. le Capitaine Guibert to the 
Tower at once ; he brings orders for the immediate trans- 
ference of a prisoner. Here, mon Capitaine, is the very 
gaoler who has the care of those au secret." 

The officer dismounted without a word, threw the speaker 
the reins, and strode up the five steps to where the surprised 
old man awaited him. He was young, tail and handsome, 

411 


412 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


suitable in every way to the bravery of his sky-blue pelisse 
heavily barred with silver, the fur-edged dolman of darker 
blue that hung from one shoulder, and the gaily embroidered 
sabretache that swung against his leg. But under the high, 
cord-wreathed shako his face looked impenetrably, almost 
unnaturally grave. 

** If you come this way, sir,** said Bernard a little 
nervously, and thereafter trotted along in front of him 
through the palace and the length of its frosty garden, 
perturbed in spirit, while the officer stalked behind him 
equally silent. They passed the guardhouse in the wall 
without comment. At the greffe in the Tower itself the 
hussar, with the same economy of language, presented 
an order, and said he wished to see the prisoner in question 
immediately. The guichetier, having read it through, raised 
his eyebrows, pursed his lips and transcribed it carefully 
in a book. It was an order for the dehvery of the person of 
Gaston de Saint-Chamans, ex-Duc de Trelan, known also 
as the Marquis de Kersaint. 

M. de Trelan is au secret — I expect you know that, 
captain,** he remarked when he had finished. I hope 
there has been no dissatisfaction at the Tuileries ? I assure 
you that every precaution is taken for his safe custody.** 

The young officer made a gesture that might have meant 
anything, and prepared to follow his guide. 

To mount that dark, winding staircase on a winter*s 
morning required a light. Bernard produced a torch and 
preceded the officer, whose sabre clanked on the steps as 
he followed him. Half way up, at one of the wickets, 
the old man paused, and turned to him. “ You are taking 
away our most distinguished prisoner. Monsieur le Capi- 
taine.** 

“ Yes,** replied the hussar. His mouth shut as if he did 
not intend to say more, and the old man went on again. 

One sentry — ^they were of a corps of veterans — ^was plainly 
asleep, on the bench by the door, when they got up. His 
companion, pacing to and fro, shoved him with his foot, 
and he stood sleepily to attention as the officer passed. 
In another moment the nail-studded door stood open, 
and the young hussar, taking the torch from Bernard and 
motioning him back, went in, pushing the door to behind 
him. 


GASTON GIVES UP THE YELLOW POPPY 413 

The torch he held, conflicting with the daylight from the 
high window, showed him the man he had come for fast 
asleep on the little bed in the furthest corner. He went 
over to him, stood looking down at him a second or two, 
and then, with what looked hke hesitation, put out a hand 
to wake him. But at that moment, roused by the light, 
the prisoner stirred. 

(2) 

Gaston had dreamt much that night, dreams commingled 
of sweet and sinister. Nearly always the menhirs had 
been in them, the All^e des Vieilles where Valentine had 
been miraculously restored to him, but they were strangely 
mixed with visions of Mirabel, where he and she had parted. 
He stood once more among the old stones, but she was not 
there ; he was to meet her, he knew, at Mirabel, and the idea 
was sweet. Yet somehow the dream was sinister. . . . 

And now — ^he was fully awake on the instant, in the 
fashion of a soldier and a commander. His first thought 
was — Hyde de Neuville . . . they had put forward the 
time . . . here was the pseudo-Republican of&cer he was 
to expect. He looked up at the hussar for a second or 
two — and all that fell away from him for ever. A man in 
peril is swift of apprehension. This officer was genuine. 

“You are an early visitor, sir,“ he said, raising himself 
on his elbow. “ I may guess, may I not, that you do not 
come at this hour on any very agreeable errand ? 

“ General,'* said the young man, speaking at length 
for the first time since he had entered the prison, “ my 
errand is hateful. I ... I am ashamed of the uniform 
I wear — but as long as I wear it I must obey. . . . Will 
you read that. Monsieur le Due ? “ He held out, not the 
order he had shown to the guichetier, but another, and 
brought the torch a little nearer. 

Gaston took the paper, and, still leaning on one elbow, 
studied it, and the vehement “ Bonaparte '* at the bottom, 
with the marks of the splutter of the pen. His eyebrows 
went up a trifle, but no other change came over his face. 

“ A little sudden," he observed. “ But after all . . . 
What time do you wish me to be ready ? " 

“ At seven o’clock. General. It is now ten minutes after 
six." 


414 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


The Due de Troian returned the warrant. ** The First 
Consul is somewhat given to sudden impulses/' he re- 
marked. '' As he grows older he will find that they are 
generally to be regretted. But I think that, after all, 
I misjudge him ; for this was intended from the first. I 
have about fifty minutes then. Would you be so good. 
Monsieur, as to see if they could find me a priest while I 
am dressing ; there may be one in captivity in the Temple. 
— ^No, do not give yourself the trouble ; if old Bernard is 
there I will ask him myself. And you. Monsieur le Capi- 
taine — shall I see you again ? " 

I command the escort," replied the young hussar, 
looking away. 

" I will be ready for you then, in . . . forty-seven 
minutes," said the Due, his eyes on the watch he had 
drawn from beneath his pillow. " Perhaps you will be 
good enough to leave me your torch for the moment. The 
oil was finished in my lamp last night, and the illumination 
here is not very good, as you can see." 

The young officer looked round, saw a ring designed for 
that purpose on the wall, thrust the torch into it, drew 
himsdf up, made the captive a magnificent salute, and 
strode to &e door. 

Next moment the old gaoler looked in, mildly curious. 

" Monsieur Bernard," said the Due, who was now sitting 
on the edgfe of the bed, " I have a particular favour to ask 
you. Can you contrive to heat me some shaving water 
within a quarter of an hour or so ? I wish to be presentable 
this morning." 

" But certainly, only — Monsieur le Due, what is it, so 
early ? You are being transferred, I gathered ? " 

"Yes, Bernard — if you like to put it so. And besides 
the shaving water — and a better light to use it by — is there 
by chance a priest among the prisoners here, think you ? " 

"A priest ! " exclaimed the old man, taken aback. " A 
priest ... I don’t know — I don’t think so. But why 
do you want a . . . O Monseigneur 1 — ^it’s not that ! " 

" It is indeed," said Gaston with a little smile. " Not 
altogether unexpected, my good Bernard. — Well, do your 
best to get me a priest. I have not much time ; only 
about three-quarters of an hour." 

No, he had not much time. And perhaps it was best 


GASTON GIVES UP THE YELLOW POPPY 415 

He could not possibly say good-bye to Valentine now. 
Yesterday had been their farewell after all. Did this 
hurried execution mean that the First Consul had got 
wind of to-night’s rescue ? 

He dressed swiftly, but with attention to details, shaved 
with care when old Bernard, almost weeping, brought him 
the water and the tidings that no priest could so far be 
found ; and, with only twenty-five minutes left, sat down to 
write his last letter to Valentine. 

He had no little to say, but he wrote steadily and without 
difficulty, pausing only once or twice. \^en he had 
finished he took out from a pocket-case in his breast a little 
square of folded paper, somewhat worn, wrote on it three 
words and slipped it inside his letter. Then he folded, 
addressed and sealed the whole, kissed his wife’s name 
upon the superscription, and put it in the case. There 
was already another letter there. 

And now, since he had taken from its place over his heart 
the amulet he always wore there, to ^ve it back to the 
hand whence he had it, for the short time that heart had 
to beat it should beat against the symbol that was rather of 
loyalty than of love — but which love had nevertheless 
fashioned and given him. He took from the back of the 
chair the scarf he had so treasured, and put the end with 
the golden fleur-de-lys to his lips. For a moment, at the 
touch of what her fingers had wrought, a wave of anguish 
engulfed him. He gripped his hands hard behind his 
head, as it fell forward on the folds of the scarf across the 
table. O, not to have to leave her . . . even to see her 
once more, only once ! 

It was short, that agony. Gaston de Trelan had faced 
it many times these last few days. He rose, fastening the 
scarf across his breast instead of as usual round his 
waist. Her arms would be about him thus, to the 
end. Only four minutes more. No priest had come. 
So he knelt down by the table, and tried to collect his 
thoughts. 

The door opened slowly. Gaston stood up ; the young 
hussar, much the paler of the two, came in. 

“ I am ready,” said the Due. ” But before we go I have 
a favour to ask of you. This case, Monsieur, contains a 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


416 

letter to my wife, with another to the same address. Could 
it be given to her ? She is to be found at Mme Tessier's 
in the Rue de Seine.” 

” I give you my word that she shall have it,” said the 
officer. ” I will take it myself — if I cannot find a better 
messenger.” 

” Thank you. Monsieur,” said Gaston, replacing the 
case inside his uniform. ” If it wiU not inconvenience 
you, however, I will keep the letter on me tiU the last 
possible moment, and give it to you — slater on. And I have 
a fancy not to be parted from my Cross of Maria Theresa 
before I need ; therefore, if it would not be putting you 
to too much trouble, I would ask you to take it ofi when 
the business is over. This scarf I should wish to be buried 
with. I am stiU, you know. Monsieur le Capitaine,” he 
threw back his head a little, ” the General commanding for 
His Majesty King Louis XVIII. in Finistere, a position 
that is not cancelled by my capture under a safe-conduct. 
— I beg your pardon, for you neither had part in, nor 
approve of that,” he added, seeing the young man wince. 
” The scarf, then, I should desire to remain on me, the 
order to go to the Duchesse if you would be so good.” 

” She shall have it ... if you think that a Republican’s 
word is ever to be trusted again.” 

” I think that I can trust yours,” retorted Gaston, 
holding out his hand. 

” Monsieur le Due . . .” stammered the young hussar, 
hesitating. 

The keen eyes smiled at him. ” My boy, do you think 
I don’t understand ? Come, we have a journey to make in 
company. And your hands are clean — as I hope mine are.” 

So, with a flush. Captain Guibert gripped his prisoner’s 
fingers for a second. And then old Bernard’s voice broke 
in on them. ” Monsei^eur,” it said at Gaston’s elbow, 
” you are fasting, and it is so cold outside ! Will you not ? ” 
And he held out on a little tray a cup of cofiee. But 
his hands shook so that the cup was clattering on its saucer. 

” Monsieur Bernard, you are my good angel,” said 
Gaston gaily, as he took it from him. ” I hope M. le Capi- 
taine was as fortunate before he set out — so much earlier, 
too, than I am to do.” 

He drank down the hot coffee and set the empty cup on 


GASTON GIVES UP THE YELLOW POPPY 417 

the table in significant proximity to his purse, which 
he had already placed there for the old gaoler. But 
Bernard, sniffing, shuffled out before he could take farewell 
of him. 

“ Poor Bernard is too tenderhearted for his post,'* 
observed his prisoner. The sooner he is quit of us the 
better. — I foUow you. Monsieur.” 

(3) 

A guard of dismounted hussars was awaiting them at the 
foot of the Tower. 

” I have a carriage for you. Monsieur le Due,” explained 
Captain Guibert hsdf apologetically, as, on a sign from him, 
his men fell in behind him and his prisoner, ” but it is in the 
courtyard of the Palace, for as you know, it is impossible 
for a vehicle to be brought any nearer.” 

” But why should I wish for better treatment than my 
King ? ” asked the Due de Trelan. ” He had to walk from 
the Tower.” 

Once through the great wall of isolation — at last — ^they 
went side by side in silence, the armed guard behind, across 
the garden to the Palace. Gaston was thinking that if, 
on their way to the Plaine de Grenelle — the usual spot for 
such events — they crossed the river by the Pont Neuf, as 
was most likely, they could hardly avoid passing one end 
or other of the Rue de Seine, where Valentine lay asleep, 
or wakeful. He wondered whether she would somehow be 
aware . . . and whether he could entirely keep his com- 
posure as they went so near. ... 

When they came, through the building, in sight of the 
courtyard, the carriage was drawn up at the foot of the 
steps. Grouped round it, the remaining hussars sat their 
horses motionless, holding those of their dismounted com- 
rades, but the frost in the air made the animals impatient, 
and one perpetual jingle shook from their tossing heads, 
while their breaths, and the men's, too, went up like 
smoke. 

Gaston looked back over his shoulder for an instant. 
Above the low facade of the Palace, to the left of the 
Tower behind, the sun was now visible, huge and red. 
It would be a fine day, piobably — but one would not 
know. . . . The dismounted men were already resuming 


4i8 the yellow POPPY 

their saddles ; a horse was pawing the ground as if eager to 
be off. 

Lieutenant Soyer,” said the captain, ** take the head 
of the escort ! *’ He turned to his prisoner. ** Monsieur de 
Trelan, pardon me, but someone must drive in the carriage 
with you. I am very sorry . . . but if you will permit 
me, I will do so myself, instead of my lieutenant.** 

He reminded Gaston of his own three ‘ jeunes.* In such 
circumstances he would not have wished Roland to carry 
himself otherwise. 

I should desire your company. Monsieur le Capitaine,** 
he replied courteously, and put his foot on the step of the 
high-slung berline. We journey to the Plaine de Crenelle, 
I suppose ? *’ 

The young man dropped his eyes and reddened. No,** 
he said, in a low, ashamed voice, the orders are . . . 
Mirabel” 

For the first time since he had learnt that he was to die 
that morning, Gaston de Trelan showed emotion before a 
witness. He flushed too, but it was with anger. 

** The First Consul’s idea of the dramatic, I suppose ! 
One sees his origin.” He bit his hp and recovered himself. 
” I have the right, I think, to consider it somewhat mis- 
placed. However, the setting of the last scene is really of 
small importance to me.’* 

He got into the carriage, and the captain of hussars 
silently followed him in, and sat down opposite him, his 
sabre across his knees. In a few seconds the carriage was 
rolling noisily over the cobblestones of the archway into 
the street. But they would not pass near Valentine now ; 
they would soon be going further away every moment . . . 
for ever. 

They had traversed Paris, and were in the Avenue de 
Neuilly, when the young officer said abruptly, 

” Monsieur le Due, if, when we are past Neuilly, I were 
to get out, to halt the escort, make some diversion, and 
call off the men on either side — if you could shp out . . .** 

Gaston shook his head, smiling, despite himself, at the 
wild idea. ” My dear boy — apart from a personal prefer- 
ence for not being shot in the back — do you suppose that 
I would accept your young life for mine ? ** 

” My fife ! But my career was my life — and I am going 


GASTON GIVES UP THE YELLOW POPPY 419 

to resign my commission before this day is over ! I cannot 
serve any more a soldier who violates a safe-conduct. And 
I thought him ... I was with him in Italy — at Acre — 
at Aboukir . . He put his forehead down on the hands 
that rested over each other on the hilt of bis sabre, upright 
between his knees. 

Gaston’s face softened as he looked at him. It was as 
he thought. He would not have died in vain. 

He leant back with folded arms. The rumble of the 
wheels, the trot of the horses on either hand, the figures 
of their riders as they rose and fell close to the carriage 
windows, held a rhythm that was almost soothing. And 
now that the shock of indignation and disgust was over, 
what better place at which to die than Mirabel, which 
had re-united him and Valentine ? It was his dream come 
true ; he was not going away from her ; she was — was she 
not ? — ^waiting for him there. 

Only just this side of death had they plucked the flower 
of flowers ; but they had plucked it. And the life whose 
uselessness had hurt her so, at the end he had contrived to 
do something with it after all. By refusing to ransom it, 
as he might conceivably have done, he was flinging it down, 
not as a forfeit, but as a challenge, against the walls that 
had been his and Valentine’s. In having him shot in 
defiance of the strictest article of military honour, Bonaparte 
plainly designed to make of the Due de Trelan’s death a 
terrible example — in decreeing that the sentence should 
be carried out, against aU the dictates of decent feeling, 
in front of his own confiscated house, to make that death 
a kind of show as well. But the more publicity given to so 
callous and unscrupulous an action, the longer it was 
hkely to be remembered — against its author ; and the 
impression might not be what Bonaparte designed. The 
hope of such a result was partly what Gaston de Trelan was 
laying down his life for. Already, as he knew, there was 
no small clamour and protest in Paris over his probable 
fate, so that the added affront of this morning did but make 
dying, after all, the more worth while. 

The short miles had slipped past. Here already, by the 
slackening pace, was the turn off the Saint-Germain road. 
Nearly ten years. . . . The carriage, swaying a little, 
swung round at right angles into the way lined with gaunt 


420 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


poplars, where the frozen puddles crackled under hoofs 
and wheels — the last stage but one of the journey that was 
bearing him away from all he loved. No ! “ Death could 

never take you from me ! " Et expecto resurrectionem 
mortuorum et vitam venturi saeculi. Crossing himself, he 
began silently to recite his act of contrition. 

And in a few moments more, the faint winter sun glinting 
on its majolica, came Mirabel — Mirabel with the barrier 
removed, and some hundreds of troops drawn up in front of 
it on the frostbound gravel. 

The officer of hussars, raising his head, saw his companion 
holding out to him, with a little smile, the lettercase he had 
drawn from his breast. 

I am glad, after all,” said the last Due de Trelan quietly, 
** that it should be here,** 


CHAPTER XII 

FOR SOME THE WORLD IS EMPTY 
(^) 

It was Hyde de Neuville, half beside himself with grief and 
fury, who brought the Comte de Brencourt the news, 
which at ten o’clock the young conspirator had only just 
heard, and which he could hardly believe. Yet there was 
no doubt about its truth. And someone must break it to 
the Duchesse. 

But not, surely, the stunned and horrified man to whom 
this announcement had just been made. He stood frozen, 
in his room at the httle hotel garni, repeating with a stam- 
mering tongue, “ Dead ! — dead ! shot this morning ! . . . 
there is some mistake ...” 

” I wish there were ! ” cried Hyde de Neuville passion- 
ately. ” I wish to God there were ! I wish we had tried 
for last night — ^why were we such fools as to delay ? I 
do not yet know whether this morning’s work was prompted 
by design, or just by evil chance. And the Duchesse ” 

” Don’t suggest that I shall tell her ! ” cried the Comte 
wildly. ” De Neuville, for pity’s sake ” 

” But I must not lose a moment in going to Bertin and 
the others,” said the young man. ” We may aU find our- 
selves in prison before nightfall — and to no purpose. 
Besides, I am a stranger to her ; you an old acquaintance 
— the Due’s late chief of staff. You are the man, Comte. 
TeU her the whole plan has failed — tell her her husband is 
suddenly taken ill — teU her anything to soften the blow ! ” 
And he was gone. 

The Comte sank down and buried his head in his arms. 
'' I told her that he was dead, once. Now it is true — ^now 
it is true ! ” 

He could not do it. He must find someone else. Roland 
— ^he would break the news best, if he could get hold of him. 
O God, to think he had once wished this, had lied for it, 
had tried to bring it about with his own hand 1 And — shot 

421 


422 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


at Mirabel ! The idea was profoundly shocking to him 
even in the midst of the shock of the execution itself. He 
seemed to recall a hateful precedent for it, for he remem- 
bered the young Prince de Talmont, captured in the 
Vendean war and shot in front of the castle of Laval, 
which had belonged to his family for nine centuries. 

What was the time ? Suppose Mme de Trelan were to 
go to the Temple this morning ! “ The Due is gone, 

Madame la Duchesse ; he has driven out to his chateau of 
Mirabel. Will Madame follow ? '* Why did he see the 
Temple as it had once been, a princely residence, and why 
did he imagine that dialogue ? He must be going mad. 
She would not go there to-day ; the order was for yesterday. 
Yesterday she had seen him ; and did not know she should 
see him no more in hfe. 

Or stay, suppose Valentine had taken a fancy to visit 
Mirabel this morning with Roland. It was most unlikely 
that she would do such a thing ; yet his distracted mind 
showed him the Duchesse and Roland arriving there and 
finding God knew what — soldiers, a crowd, and in front 
of the great facade 

M. de Brencourt sprang up. That wholly baseless 
picture decided him. He could not let her run that dread- 
ful risk. Oblivious of the fact that, long before she got to 
Mirabel, if ever she went, she must meet the tidings of what 
had taken place there, he crammed on his hat, and without 
a redingote, despite the cold, rushed out in the direction of 
the Rue de Seine. 

** No, M. de Cehgny has gone out,** replied Suzon's ser- 
vant. “ Mme de Trelan is within.” 

His last hope was vanished then. He never thought of 
Mme Tessier. There was no help for it. Far rather would 
he have been in the dead man*s place at Mirabel. 

He was only just in time, apparently, for the first thing 
that he saw on being ushered into Mme Tessier 's parlour 
was Valentine's hat and gloves on the table. And she, 
standing by the hearth, had her cloak on already — a grey 
cloak with grey fur at the throat, in which he would always 
see her now to the end of the world. He contrived, he 
knew not how, to get across the room and to kiss her hand 
before she noticed anything unusual. 


FOR SOME THE WORLD IS EMPTY 423 

1 am glad I had not gone out. Monsieur de Brencourt,*' 
she said in an ordinary tone, such as she, had managed to 
preserve nearly all the time in these days of strain. I 
was only waiting for Roland to return." 

And then she saw his face and said, quite quietly, ** I 
am afraid you bring some bad news." 

"It is not good." His voice — ^he heard it himself — 
was the voice of a stranger. 

" The plan has miscarried somehow, Comte — you have 
come to teU me that ? " 

He bent his head. "Yes. Yes, Madame. I . . . came 
to tell you that." 

A pause. Slowly, slowly the colour faded in the face over 
the grey fur collar that he would see to the end of the world. 

" It will not be carried out to-night, then ? " 

("A/’or any other night**) No, he lacked courage to say 
that yet. 

"No, Madame. It ... it ... it has proved im- 
possible." 

" This cloak is too hot," said Valentine de Trelan sud- 
denly. She unfastened the collar. " Perhaps I will not 
go out after all." She made as if she were going to throw 
it off, then sat down instead in the armchair by the fire. 
" But time is precious. Monsieur de Brencourt," she said, 
looking at him fixedly — ^he could feel that, though he 
could not meet her eyes. 

" No," he said, trembling, and very low, " time is of no 
value now." 

But either she had not heard, or she did not understand. 
He could see that ; so he tried again, and got out more. 
" Madame, I must tell you that the time for this plan is 
past for ever." 

He felt the impact of these words on her mind, yet he 
felt also that she was gathering herself up in spirit 
either to resist their meaning or to infuse fresh will 
into him. He saw her hands clench themselves a little as 
she said, 

" If that has failed, then, you will make another, a better 
plan, will you not ? " 

O, why would she not understand I He raised his eyes 
at last in agony from her clenched hands to her face. 
" Valentine . . he said, and, had her life depended on 


424 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


it, could get out no other word. His throat had closed 
up. He turned away and hid his face. 

The fire crackled like a burning house ; outside in the 
street a boy was whistling hke a fife . . . and yet it was so 
still. 

At last her voice came, and it sounded sick with horror. 
** Monsieur de Brencourt, what — what, in God's name, are 
you trying to tell me ? " 

“ Not to go to the Temple to-day — not to go 

They have taken him away ? ” she interrupted sharply, 
her hands on the arms of the chair. “ Transferred him to 
another prison ? ” 

At last he turned and faced her, at last he got it out 
in its entirety. “Yes, he is gone — but not to another 
prison. He is gone where I wish I were gone too, before 
I had to tell you. It is all over, Valentine, all over . . 

She fell back in her chair. If only he might kneel and 
kiss her feet, try — though he knew he could not — to com- 
fort her. But the memory of this scene’s parody, played 
out falsely before, lay hke a bitter flood between him and 
her. This time it was true, his news. 

Steps outside, thank God ! Roland, perhaps, or Mme 
Tessier, whom he had forgotten. He hurried to the door, 
caught at the passerby — Suzon. 

“ Go in to the Duchesse at once,” he said. “ I have had 
to bring her terrible news — I can bear no more. The Due 
was shot at Mirabel this morning. Go in, I say ! ’’ He 
pushed her in. 

(^) 

On the very threshold, as he opened the door into the 
street to escape, M. de Brencourt all but ran into an officer 
of hussars. The officer was young, handsome, rigid, set 
about the mouth. 

“ Does Mme de Trelan lodge here ? “ he asked, with a 
foot on the doorstep. 

“ Yes,’’ rephed the Comte. “ Excuse me. Monsieur ’’ 

The officer barred the way. “ Pardon me a moment. 
I must see her.’’ 

“ You cannot,” retorted de Brencourt, stopped despite 
himself. “ She cannot see anyone.” 

“ She knows then ! ” said the young man, and there was 
relief in his tone. 


FOR SOME THE WORLD IS EMPTY 425 

And instantly, looking at the expression on his visage, 
the Comte understood. 

“ I have just told her,’' he said. 

“ Thank God for that,” returned the hussar. ” But I 
have a message to deliver — and I pray you. Monsieur, to 
give it to her, as you have . . . done the other thing. I 
come straight from Mirabel.” 

“ Monsieur,” replied the Comte hoarsely. once it was 
prophesied to me that I should do this lady a service. I 
did not know what it would be — now, I think I do ... I 
have just rendered it, and not for the hope of heaven 
would I go through the hke again. You must give the 
message yourself, if it was from . . . him” 

There is no verbal message from . . . the late Due de 
Trelan,” answered the yoimg hussar, and as he paused 
at the name and its qualification he suddenly brought his 
heels together and saluted. And the Comte, for aU his 
pre-occupation with his own feelings, saw that his mouth 
was twitching. ” There is no verbal message,” he repeated, 
” but I have two letters, and the Due’s decoration. I 
am charged, however, to say, that Mme de Troian is at 
liberty to go to Mirabel when and how she will, that her 
privacy will be respected in every way, and that if she 
wishes the body to be buried in the chapel there ” 

” Is this the First Consul’s magnanimity ! ” flared out 
the Comte. And, thinking he heard a sound behind him 
in the house, and suddenly becoming conscious, too, that 
all this was taking place on the doorstep, he seized hold 
of the young ofiicer’s hanging dolman. ” Bring that cursed 
uniform of yours inside ! ” he muttered, and, opening the 
door of a httle room close by, pushed the ghttering and 
jingling form inside. 

Once sheltered by a closed door the young Republican 
turned on him almost savagely. ” Do you think that you 
are the only man heartbroken over this horrible business ? ” 
he demanded. ” Do you realise that I have had to help 
carry it out — that it was I, at least, who commanded the 
escort, that it was I who had to rouse M. de Trelan early 
this morning with the news, had to drive with him from 
Paris to Mirabel, had to sit my horse like a statue with 
my sword drawn, as though I approved, while it was done 
— I who have been one of Bonaparte’s aides-de-camp in 


426 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


Egypt and Syria, and have worshipped his very stirrup 
leather . . . and am going to throw up my commission 
the moment I leave this house ! 

There was no doubt of his emotion now ; two tears were 
running down his face. He could not have been more than 
five and twenty. He raised a gauntleted hand and brushed 
them away. 

“ Why, then, did you ** began M. de Brencourt in a 

suddenly weary voice. 

Because if I had not commanded the escort someone 
else would have done so. When I found I was detailed for 
that duty, I thought I could at least ensure that M. de Tre- 
lan had due respect shown him — and that I could, perhaps, 
let him know before he died that there was, at any rate, one 
soldier of the Republic who was ashamed of the deed. As 
I intended to resign my commission immediately after- 
wards there was nothing improper in that . . . and if I 
went farther than I should perhaps have done when, on the 
way to Mirabel, I offered to connive at his escape — ^well, the 
Due refused.*' He paused, drew a long breath, and said. 

Afterwards I had my men carry him into Mirabel, into the 
great hall there. We unbarred the big door for it. I had 
the candlesticks fetched from the chapel also ; strangely 
enough, there were funeral candles already in them. If 
Mme de Trelan goes, therefore, there is nothing she cannot 
look upon ; I have seen to that. His face is quite unin- 
jured — I would not even have it covered.” 

The Comte held out his hand to him. ” If I could bring 
myself really to believe that he is dead,” he said painfully, 
” I would thank you in her name. But I cannot believe it 
— even after telling her so.” 

” Oh, God knows it’s true enough,” responded the 
young hussar, passing his hand for a moment over his 
eyes. 

” Where was it carried out — this iniquity ? ” demanded 
M. de Brencourt abruptly. 

” In front of one of the central towers, below which the 
concierge used to live. It was the Due’s own choice, when 
he was asked if he had any preference ; I do not know the 
reason for it.” 

M. de Brenepurt did. He turned away. 

And, even as he turned, the door of the little room opened. 


FOR SOME THE WORLD IS EMPTY 427 

and in came, not Roland, as he expected — ^but the Abb^ 
Chassin. 

You ! ** exclaimed the Comte, staring at him in astonish- 
ment. They had not met since the memorable day in the 
thicket by the road ; moreover he thought the Abb6 still 
in England. 

Travelstained, his eyes red-rimmed for lack of sleep, his 
round face drawn and shadowed, the little priest looked 
not only twenty years older, but as if the heart had gone out 
of him for ever. 

** I have journeyed day and night since I heard he was 
taken,'* he said in a duUed voice. “ I know now that I 
am too late. My God, my God ! " 

How did you learn it ? Have you seen Mme de 
Trelan ? " 

‘'Not yet. Mme Tessier is with her. I heard it in the 
streets." 

The Comte looked at him and was moved with compas- 
sion. " I am sorry for that," he said, gently for him, and 
put his hand for a second on the dusty shoulder. Then he 
bent and added in a low voice, " We should have saved him 
this very evening if it had not been for this." 

The young officer, who had been standing since the Abba’s 
entrance gazing at some objects which he had laid on the 
table, here raised his head and addressed the newcomer. 
" Then perhaps you. Monsieur, would give Mme la Duchesse 
the message I bear — and give her these, too. I was trying 
to persuade this gentleman to do it. It is not over fitting 
for me." 

" You were ... ? " asked M. Chassin, his face working 
a little. 

" Monsieur commanded the escort," replied the Comte 
for him, " and has done everything that he could do, then 
and since. He bears a message from the . . . the 
authorities that the Duchesse is free to go to Mirabel when 
she pleases, and to do what she wishes about burial. . . . 
You tell her, Abbe. We have both had as much as we can 
bear ! " 

" And you think I can bear anything ? " asked M. 
Chassin in a half-choked voice, " I, who shall never see him 
ahve now 1 " 

The young hussar had noted the Comte's method of 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


428 

address. '' You are a priest, sir ? he enquired. ** Then 
perhaps this letter, directed to the Abbe Chassin, is for 
you ? " 

Pierre was beside him in a moment, and saw what was 
on the table. “ O Gaston, my brother ! " he exclaimed 
brokenly, and knelt down there, covering his face. 

“ Brother ! ” ejaculated the Comte under his breath. 
Then he understood. It explained many things. 

“ This order that he wore is not hurt,” murmured the 

young hussar almost to himself, “ although ” He did 

not finish, but hfted a fold of the handkerchief, and revealed 
the cross of white and gold with its red heart. “ M. de 
Trelan particularly wished the Duchesse to have it.” He 
relapsed into silence again, looking down at it, and M. de 
Brencourt stood looking at it too — save those two letters 
in the firm hand-writing which he knew so weU, aU that was 
left of the leader he had admired, and hated, and schemed 
against — and tried to save. 

” Absolve, 0 Lord, the soul of Thy servant,** prayed the 
Abbe in the silence, ” that though dead to the world he may 
live to Thee, and whatsoever he hath done amiss in his human 
conversation, through the weakness of the flesh, do Thou 
by the pardon of Thy most merciful loving-kindness wipe 
away.** He rose to his feet, took up the letter addressed 
to him, kissed it, and put it in his pocket. ” This, I under- 
stand,” he said to the hussar, touching the cross, ” is for 
Mme de Trelan, as weU as the letter ? ” 

” You will do my commission then, Monsieur I’Abbe ? ” 
asked the young man, his face haggard with strain and 
entreaty. “ I thank you from my heart ! As for me, I 
have business of my own now.” And he picked up his 
shako. 

“ One moment,” said M. Chassin. ” I fancy that when 
I came in you were telling this gentleman some details 
about — the end. The Duchesse may some day wish to 
hear them ; and I wish to know now, both as M. le Due’s 
foster-brother and a priest. — Did they let him have a 
priest this morning ? ” 

The young captain sedulously fingered the cords that 
went round his headgear. ” He asked for one, but none 
could be found in the time.” He hesitated, and then broke 
out — ” If I might tell you the rest another day. Monsieur 


FOR SOME THE WORLD IS EMPTY 429 


TAbbe ; I engage to do so. But just now the whole affair 
is so horrible to me — ^no, not the actual execution, for 
any one more nobly and simply composed than M. de Trelan 
it is impossible to imagine . . . the one man at Mirabel 
this morning who had no cause for shame. Moreover since 
there was, mercifully, no bungling, he could scarcely have 
suffered — shot, as he was, through the heart. I was not 
the only soldier there who envied him so fine an end 
before so many witnesses. (There were generals present ; 
Lannes and Murat, and Marmont, too, I think.) But the 
treachery of it ! . . . Gentlemen, your cause has sustained 
a great loss, but Bonaparte’s honour has sustained a 
greater ! ” 

“Yes,” said the Comte, “ and if M. de Trelan had cared 
less for that cause for which he died, he might very con- 
ceivably have kept his life — but that, I expect, is not 
generally known. I intend that it shall be.” 

“ What is that ? ” exclaimed the Abbe. “ He refused a 
pardon ? ” 

“ He refused to ask for one,” returned the Comte, and 
explained. 

“ O, my brother, I recognise you there ! ” said Pierre 
softly. 

“ Yet it is not a thing that the Duchesse ought to know,” 
added M. de Brencourt. 

“ Not know it ! ” exclaimed the young hussar. “ Why, 
to die like that is more than fine — it is glorious ! It 
seems a pity that she should be ignorant of it. 1 shall 
remember . . . Farewell, gentlemen.” 

He turned towards the door, and took one step in its 
direction, but no more. For it was open, and Mine de 
Trelan herself stood on the threshold None of them, 
absorbed, had known it. 

M. de Brencourt put his hand over his mouth. God 
grant she had not heard ! She gave no sign of it. Her 
eyes were on the young Republican. 

“ You come from . . . Mirabel, I think, sir ? ” 

“ Yes, Madame. I have brought you . . . these.” 
He indicated the letter and the decoration on the table, but 
made no motion to give them to her, and she did not take 
them. Yet she looked at them as though she saw nothing 
else. And the Abbe was kissing her hand before she seemed 


430 THE YELLOW POPPY 

to realise that he was there, nor did she show any surprise at 
his presence. 

But in a moment or two she hfted her eyes to the young 
officer again, and from her look it seemed as if, with the 
strange, exalted sight that comes sometimes with the 
stroke of a grief that no words can fathom, she saw some- 
thing now of the tragedy of his soul on his face. 

“ I thank you, sir, for these,” she said gently. ** My 
husband has a higher honour now, I think.” 

The young hussar bent his head till his looped-up tresses 
of plaited hair fell on his breast. ” Yes, Madame.” He 
bowed profoundly, and went once more towards the door ; 
then, inspired perhaps by that vision of measureless sorrow 
and courage before him, turned and said, ” Madame, I 
have been present at the death of a hero. I wish mine 
might be like it ! ” And — only a young captain of hussars, 
but the material of which the conqueror's marshals 
were made — ^he saluted and went out, to lay aside, with 
his broken behef, all his dreams of glory. 

When he was gone, M. Chassin took the letter and the 
cross in its handkerchief, and put them into Valentine's 
hands. M. de Brencourt looked out of the window. He 
did not hear what they said to each other, but he 
supposed that the priest was giving her the message about 
Mirabel . . . 

It was thawing outside. People were going to and fro 
as usual. . . . Viffio would have thought the world would 
seem so empty ? 

Valentine's voice startled him. ” Monsieur de Bren- 
court, would you have the goodness to procure me a car- 
riage ? I am going at once to Mirabel.” 

He turned round. "Not alone, Madame, surely ! ” 
For she stood there alone now. 

” No, M. I'Abbe will go with me. — But first, teU me of 
what you were speaking when I came in. I heard the 
word pardon ; was there ever talk of such a thing ? ” 

Rent with compassion, he looked at her and did not 
answer. 

” I heard what that young man said,” she went on with 
extraordinary steadiness, ” that it was a pity I should not 
know. Tell me, I implore you I ” 

She knew too much already 1 Useless to try to keep it 


FOR SOME THE WORLD IS EMPTY 431 

from her now, and dreadful to combat her wishes at this 
moment. And, not yet having seen Roland since yesterday 
afternoon, the Comte had received no direct prohibition ; 
it was only his own consideration for her which recom- 
mended silence. So he told her the truth. She covered 
her face ; and once again he left her. 

** Will you tell Roland, when he comes, to follow us to 
Mirabel ? ” said the Abb^ to him some half-hour later, 
before entering the carriage after Mme de Trelan. 

M. de Brenco-urt bowed his head. ** And I ? '* he said 
in a low voice, ** If I might — if I dared think 

The Duchesse turned hers and answered without hesita- 
tion. ** Come with Roland— I ** 


CHAPTER XIII 

TO THE UTTERMOST 


The Abb4 Chassin, who lived to be a very old man, left 
among his papers a full record of most of the events con- 
nected with the death of the Due de Trelan, but no word 
of that short drive with Mme de Trelan from Paris to 
Mirabel. Presumably he could not write of it. 

Yet Valentine was quite calm. She leant back nearly 
aU the way with her eyes closed, an image of marble in her 
grey cloak. Her hands were clasped in her lap ; Pierre 
thought that she, hke himself, was praying, but he was not 
sure. From him, at intervals, scraps of the De Profundis 
broke aloud, and he did not know it. . . . Domine exaudi 
vocem meam . . . Quia apud te propitiatio est , , . speravit 
anima mea in Domino. . . . Underneath it all was the 
thought that their carriage wheels, once Paris was behind 
them, were on the very track of Gaston’s, and that they 
were passing over again, at so short an interval, his via 
dolorosa. But well he knew that his had been nothing to 
his wife’s, now. 

Was not that the final swordstroke, too — that bitter and 
glorious knowledge which was to have been kept from her ? 
He was sure that Gaston had not meant her to learn it. 
And yet, after all, perhaps it fell at this hour on a heart 
already numbed by shock, and she could better bear it 
to-day than to-morrow. To have known it yesterday, 
when her husband was still on earth — that would have been 
intolerable. But she had said so little, seemed set on so 
high a pinnacle of loss, that he could only look at her, and 
conjecture, and pray. And in his own heart the sword 
turned also. 

At last they left the road to Saint-Germain. The 
poplars passed one by one, those poplars under which Mme 
Vidal had walked last spring to take up her post. Mud 
splashed from the wheels ; the puddles were melted since 

432 


TO THE UTTERMOST 


433 


this morning. The carriage slackened, then, turning, 
drove through the empty space between the gateposts 
with their mutilated Hons. But Mirabel bore httle trace of 
what had taken place there four or five hours ago, save that 
the barrier was entirely removed, and the gravel scored by 
the passage of troops. And there were certain marks 
on the base of one of the towers ; but these were invisible 
at a distance. 

They drew up before the great steps. The priest got out 
and assisted Mme de Trelan to alight. The heavy door 
at the top, barred for so many years, stood wide open, and 
on either side of it was stationed a hussar with drawn sabre. 
At least then, ran his thought, the butchers have some 
proper feeling ; they do not intend the curious to pass that 
door . . . unless, perhaps, it were that young captain’s 
doing only. He offered his arm. But Valentine refused 
it. I would rather go quite alone,” she said gently. ” If 
you would wait here till I summon you ... or till the 
others come . . .” 

He could not gainsay her. So once more he, too, stood 
in front of Mirabel, and suddenly reahsed with intensity 
the part that Mirabel’s treasure — yielded moreover to his 
hands — ^had played in these two fives. It had made 
possible Gaston de Trelan’s short-lived success in Finistere, 
and had thereby brought him fame — and death. It had 
lifted his bmden from him, and joined him and Valentine 
in a union such as they had never known . . . but only 
to part them. The colonnades wavered for a moment as 
all this beat upon the priest’s brain. Then he thought of 
nothing else but what was before his eyes — the figure of 
Mme de Trelan going up those wide, neglected steps. 

He did not know, nor did Valentine till she came to 
them, that across their discoloured marble trailed, in 
places, another and a deeper discolouration. She had 
reached the sixth or seventh of the twelve before its meaning 
penetrated to her consciousness. She stopped, drawing 
a long breath ; then went slowly on again, looking at it. 
But when she came to the tenth step Pierre Chassin, 
watching from below, saw her sink on her knees, and 
thought her strength was failing her. It was not so. 
Bending forward, as on the ascent of some great altar, 
the Duchesse de Trelan deliberately stooped and kissed. 


2 £ 


434 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


on the topmost step of all, one of the little splashes, dull 
now, and dry, which marked her husband’s return to his 
house of Mirabel. 

Then she rose, and went also, between the guards, 
through the open door, and into the Salle Verte. 

But here, in the long, pillared room, there were no signs 
of anything like that ineffaceable witness upon the steps. 
Only, an island of light in its vastness, a pale island in the 
winter’s day, the t^ candlesticks from the chapel, with 
tapers burning in them, and, on the groimd between, 
straight and still, the sovereign presence there — Gaston. 
Had there been rivers of blood, disfigurement, horrors, 
they would not have stopped her for a moment ; and, 
come as she was to the end of the world where the great 
sea washes in, she saw nothing but beauty and an im- 
imagined splendour. 

For a second, indeed, those four spires tipped with flame 
seemed a strange distance off, and, measured even by steps, 
the way was long down the great, silent room of ^t and 
marble, under the gaze of the painted Ol5nnpus of the 
ceiling, which had looked on many scenes, but never on 
the counterpart of this. Yet, with no remembrance of 
having traversed it, she was there beside him. 

He lay his full length, his head hardly raised on the 
rolled-up military cloak which pillowed it, and he had 
for a paU the strip of ancient tapestry from the sallette. 
The worn fabric covered his body from throat to feet, but 
over its faded imagery his hands were folded lightly on his 
breast, the fingertips just crossing each other. His head 
was turned a very little towards the door by which she had 
entered, as if expecting her ; a faint gleam of gold at his 
side showed an inch or two of the fringe of his scarf — 
her scarf — escaping from beneath the shrouding tapestry. 
He did not now look more than five-and-forty, and, except 
that he was mortally pale, he might have been asleep. 

Valentine had no consciousness of death in presence 
of this incarnation of dignity and repose. He had never 
seemed more alive, or closer to her. Slowly she knelt 
down by him ; slowly, and without a tremor, she kissed 
him on the mouth. For her there were no more fever-fits 
of suspense, nor ever would be again. 


TO THE UTTERMOST 


435 


Then she contemplated him, lying there hke a victor. 
This was his return to the house he had so lightly quitted 
— a triumphal return, she could feel it no otherwise. He 
had in death the same air of dominating his surroundings 
that had been his in life, but with a serenity added which 
it was hard to believe a violent end had given him. And 
whence had he that air of absorption in some grave happi- 
ness of his own ? She knew. She had known this long 
while — was it an hour ? ... It was written too, perhaps, 
in this letter. For here, alone with Gaston in this narrow 
house of light, was the place to read his last message. 
When she broke the seal of the letter a tiny packet slipj^d 
out on to the hands which had put it there. Valentine 
let it lie ; what need for haste ? 

** There is not time*' she read, there is not time to ask 
you to come to me, Valentine, beloved, and perhaps it is best. 
Indeed I did not intentionally deceive you yesterday when I 
said that I should be allowed to see you again. The plan 
has not failed ; but it will never be put to the test now, and 
perhaps that is best too. 

“ / think you know, my dearest, that I look upon the perfidy 
with which my life is taken from me as an opportunity which 
I would not forego — though I tried not to put it to you too 
directly yesterday when Ute issue was still in doubt. That 

life itself is little enough to give, God knows, but at least it 

is more than I should have been able to give had I been killed 
in Brittany, where all we tried to do by the sword has proved 
so vain. For to fall like this means immortal shame to the 
conqueror, and you will see, Valentine, that the blot of the 
violated safe-conduct and its sequel will not easily or soon be 
washed from Bonaparte* s reputation, whatever lustre the 
future may add to it ; and so I like to think that my death 
will do more for the cause than my life could ever have done. 
And if my sword is broken, it is not taken from me. It is 

not I who have regrets on the score of treachery. I have 

my chance thereby — and you would surely be the last to stay 
me. For once, Valentine, you gave me leave to die ! 

" The regret I have ... 0 my darling, is there need to 
name it? Yet you said, that last night at La Vergne, 
that we should never know any happiness over the sea 
greater than that which we have had, so briefly hut so 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


436 

wonderfully, this autumn. It is true, dearest, true a 
thousand times. We shall not now grow old together, that 
is all. 

** I do not presume to dictate to you what you should do until 
we meet again. You will know best. The Abbe is aware 
of my dispositions for your future. They are safely in 
London ; he will tell you of them when he returns. 1 wish 
I could have seen him again ; I have written him a few 
lines — poor acknowledgment of what he has been to me. I 
commend Roland to him, but most of all to you, you being 
what you are. For him, too, Pierre knows my wishes. And I 
ask de Brencourt’s pardon once more for what I said to him 
at La Vergne when he tried to warn me. He has taken the 
best revenge. 

'‘But, Valentine, I do not ask your pardon again for all 
the past, for that would be to doubt you — a thing impossible. 
To my last breath this morning I shall have you in my heart 
— and feel you in my arms, perhaps, as on the shore that day 
in Finistere, when it was you who wished to die because we 
were so happy. You see, therefore, beloved, how small a 
thing it is, if one can do it cheerfully — as I do. 

“ I have not much more time. Old Bernard has gone to 
find a priest, but I do not somehow think he will be successful. 
If I must depart unshriven you will pray best for me, my heart 
of hearts, for you know all the worst of me. For I desire 
to die as I have not always lived, in the Catholic faith, the 
servant of the King of France, and your most unworthy 
lover.** 

It was dated that morning at a little before seven o'clock, 
and signed with his full name, Gaston-Henri-Hippolyte- 
Gabriel-Eleonor de Saint-Chamans, and with all his 
titles. 

The letter fell from Valentine’s hands. No mention 
here of the pardon he had spurned — ^no mention, for her 
sake. Ah, how much better she understood yesterday 
now ! “You tried to keep it from me,” she whispered, 
“ but I know your secret, O my knight without stain ! 
I know why you look like that ! ‘If one can do it cheerfully 
— as I do.* If you could do it, surely I can bear the know- 
ledge of it ! ” And she clasped her hands in acceptance 
above the piece of flotsam from other years that covered 


TO THE UTTERMOST 


437 


him like a banner, whereon still lingered fragments of 
warriors and guidons and waves and battlemented towers, 
and — unnoticed, perhaps, by the reverent and hostile 
hands that spread it there — a border of the flower which 
had sprung out of a soil of such past glories, the fleur-de-lys, 
the symbol for which he had died. For she had very 
clearly the conviction that she was speaking to him, that 
she would often speak to him like this, as she might have 
spoken yesterday, but with all the pain, the conflict of 
\^s, gone from their intercourse — ^that they would many 
times talk together thus, and that she would tell him over 
and over again, “ My heart, my hero ! you did well . . . 
well ! 

Then she saw the little packet lying where it had fallen, 
and took it up again. It was no more than a folded square 
of paper with Qiree words on it ; but out of it — pale, 
brittle, transparent as goldbeater’s skin, the stain at their 
bases more deeply marked — floated the four pressed petals 
of the yeUow poppy she had once given him by the verge 
of that full sea of joy. As before they fell — fell and 
scattered . . . but not this time on the sand. Valentine’s 
hand shook suddenly. Her presentiment of that day of 
rapture had come true ; they did typify that love of theirs, 
so late in blooming, so miraculous in its perfect flower, 
so soon cut short. Ghosts of their former loveliness, they 
lay unstirred now on the quiet breast. . . . And there, too, 
above her, as she knelt by Gaston treacherously slain, there 
they were once more, wavering in the cold air, pallid in the 
March daylight — four petals, each on a stem of wax, 
significant and alive 1 Was this what the yellow sea-poppy 
had foreshadowed — the petals of this encircling flower of 
death, between which he lay so ivory-pale and would not 
speak to her nor move ? . . . 

Then he was dead ; she had not understood. He could 
not hear. Her head began to turn ; a cold, slow terror rose 
over her soul like a marsh-mist. The air seemed full of 
flickering petals, flickering flames. As she had stretched 
out her hands to Gaston that day by the menhirs, so now 
she stretched them out again, but more blindly, in more 
desperate need — and met his for the last time. And, cold 
though they were and motionless, she clasped her own 
round them, and, stooping, covered them with kisses, for 


THE YELLOW POPPY 


438 

they were still his hands . . . the hands that yesterday, 
about this time, warm and strong, were holding hers. . . . 

When that thought touched her, Valentine’s composure 
shattered to fragments. She could not bear it. It was 
too much to ask of her, to approve this cruel heroism. 
After so short a time ... so short a time ! . . . O, if 
only she might follow Gaston now, if she might only He 
here cold beside him, where she was bowed in weeping 
such as she had never known. . . . No, that was not for 
her ; she saw instead a long road. . . . And even in her 
anguish she found herself praying almost unconsciously — 
but not for the accompHshment of that desire. In that 
difficult prayer she seemed to drift a long way from the 
Salle Verte . . . even to be, once, on the threshold of a 
strange region where grief and joy were in some mysterious 
fashion fused into one awful beauty. And Gaston was 
there with her. . . . 

When she came back she found in her hand the little piece 
of paper that had enclosed the petals, on which she saw that 
Gaston had written, written recently, three words, no more. 
And they were the motto of his house ; Memini et per- 
maneo — * I remember and I remain ... to the end.’ 

They wonderfuUy steadied her ; they seemed the most 
direct message from those closed, serene and half-smihng 
Hps. And in this border country between the four candle- 
flames, where her desire was accompHshed and her heart 
broken with its accomplishment, she saw clearly — and 
would never quite lose the vision — the marvellous and 
splendid thing that had come to them after those barren 
years : to both a great love, to her a great sorrow, and to 
him that noble end which even the foe had envied him — 
the opportunity, in a shaken time, of proving his fidehty 
to the uttermost, the supreme honour of choosing deatli 
rather than beUttle the cause he served. 

Yes, all, all that she had longed for him to show himself 
lay here between the candles ; and with it their love, safe 
for ever. And very gently Valentine de Troian gathered 
up from their restingplace the almost bodiless petads 
of the yellow poppy which were thus given back to 
her, and held them a moment in the curve of her 
hand. They seemed to mean, now, even more than they 


TO THE UTTERMOST 


439 


had meant that day, since they had Isiin on the heart which, 
in making so great a sacrifice, asked of her a courage as 
great, a fortitude longer drawn. Yet it was a crown that 
she would carry — sharp, but royal. She looked at the 
composed and beautiful head on the soldier's cloak. 

** I am his wife/' she said to herself, “ — his widow I *' 


THE END. 


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